


Stands Between

by ncfan



Series: Legendarium Ladies April [7]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bechdel Test Pass, Beleriand, F/M, Fall of Nargothrond, Finduilas lives!, First Age, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, POV Female Character, POV Male Character, Tumblr: legendariumladiesapril, Women In Power, legendarium ladies april
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-06-04 01:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6635392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfan/pseuds/ncfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Suddenly, the stranger drew their sword, and Finduilas's heart seized in her chest. The blade was black. Túrin had come after all." AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is written for the Legendarium Ladies April 11 prompt, ‘Everybody Lives!’ I have always thought of Finduilas as being a character who deserved a lot better than she got. Given that this is the Silm in general, and the Narn in particular, she is hardly unique in that regard, but I was also drawn to the line of Gwindor’s, of his belief that Finduilas stood in between Túrin and his doom. I wanted to explore Finduilas’s emotional state and what she would do after surviving the destruction of Nargothrond, but I also wanted to think about what might change in Beleriand if Finduilas survived and if she really did stand between Túrin and his doom.
> 
> This is a two-part fic, both because I realized that the whole thing was probably going to be about 15k long, and also because I would like to explore a couple of the other LLA prompts before April ends. I will hopefully start work on the second chapter first thing in May.

Gwindor’s words, threat, plea and promise all at once, rang in Túrin’s mind as he raced back to Nargothrond. The strength of Nargothrond was broken. Its king and the greater part of its military were broken upon the swords and spears of Angband. Still more had burned in the flames of the Great Worm. Those few had survived beside him had long since fled. To where, Túrin could not say. Even after coming to manhood amongst the Elves, it was nigh impossible for him to track Elves both desperate to go unnoticed and canny enough to take the necessary precautions to achieve that end. Possibly they had gone to the defense of Nargothrond.

It didn’t matter. That didn’t matter. The survivors of Tumhalad could flee and cower in the wilderness, and do so for the rest of time, as far as Túrin cared. He ran back to Nargothrond with the wind under his feet, and aching muscles and searing lungs could hardly slow him down.

_“And this last I say to you: she alone stands between you and your doom. If you fail her, it shall not fail to find you.”_

Those words had the ring of truth to them, and bore a weight Túrin could not have denied even if he wished to—he could feel that weight even now, pressing on him from all sides. But growing clearer and sharper with each moment was the memory of the massacre on Amon Rûdh, and what had come afterwards. Finduilas would doubtless be borne away to Angband, if she wasn’t killed outright before then. There had been a time when Túrin himself had been driven down the dark road to Angband, and he remembered, like a man remembered the knife that had slipped between his ribs, what he had seen when light was shed on that path.

Beleg had died following him, slain by Túrin’s own hand. Now Gwindor joined him in the shadowed lands of the Elven dead, and if Túrin had not killed him directly, his death was on Túrin’s hands, regardless. But Túrin would sooner taste death on his own tongue than allow Finduilas to join their ranks. Since the beginning, she had been light, a pillar of gold flame in the darkness. She, at least, he would not fail.

Túrin found Nargothrond a smoking ruin, its stones scorched black and the very bridge he had ordered built for the ease of Nargothrond’s troops crawling with Orcs. The Orcs fled before him, but soon Túrin found one who would not flee, and found reason to remember something else Gwindor had told him, what seemed like an eternity ago.

 _“Glaurung has great power in his voice and in his gaze. He can deceive and compel even the strongest-willed, inciting them to act in ways that go against their desires, against their very natures. He does not speak except to lie. If ever you should encounter him—and I pray you do not!—you must be wary, and not trust anything he says to you._ ”

Later, when dragons were more commonplace in the lands east of the Sea, it would be said that the unwary made more vulnerable targets for a dragon’s guile, and that the way, depending on the strength of their will, could resist it in part or in whole. For now, Túrin would have his will tested, and see if it endured—or if the dragon broke it upon his tongue.

-0-0-0-

Túrin was turned loose from Glaurung’s snares dazed, reeling, torn in mind and in heart. The reek of blood and foul smoke clogged in the back of his throat, and he stumbled as he set away from Nargothrond. Finduilas’s cries filled his ears, tearing uneven sobs from his mouth, as much form confusion as torment. Ever were his eyes trained upon the north, as he scrabbled over the rocks and the hills.

_“As thralls your mother and your sister live in Dor-lómin, in misery and want. You are arrayed as a prince, but they go in rags. For you they yearn, but you care not for that.”_

Blood welled up on his palm as Túrin cut his hand open on one of the rocks of the Talath Dirnen. The pain was like a spur, driving him forward.

 _“No heed did you give to the cries of the Elf-woman. Will you deny also the bond of your blood?_ ”

There was a game Beleg had taught him, when he was young. Two of your companions have been taken captive by Orcs. They have been carried off in opposite directions, and you can only save one. Who do you choose to save, and who do you sacrifice? The decision had been difficult enough when it was only a game. Now…

Finally, Túrin collapsed, exhausted against the trunk of a withered birch tree, its branches stripped of leaves by the high winds and the unseasonable cold of the early autumn. He buried his head in his hands, struggling to clear his mind.

Finduilas would be taken to Angband. Killed? Maybe. Tortured? Maybe. Put to work in the mines? Maybe. He knew for certain that she would suffer, that Morgoth would put her to torment. There were none who went to Angband without tasting anguish, and a Noldorin princess would make great sport for the Enemy. Meanwhile, his mother and sister languished in Dor-lómin, women of the House of Hador made thralls to the meanest of Morgoth’s servants, or so Glaurung had said.

Túrin had not forgotten Gwindor’s words to him regarding the dragon—he knew Glaurung to be a liar, and knew him to be capable of making Túrin go against his own instincts and desires. It was the truth, it was plain truth that even now Finduilas was being driven on to Angband, and that once she passed beyond the gates, any hope of rescue would be all but dead.

It was true as well that Túrin did not know for sure if his mother and sister still lived on Dor-lómin (And bitterly he rued never making any attempt to contact them after leaving the shelter of Menegroth). Glaurung may well have spoken to lie, and they had fled Dor-lómin long ago. But Túrin _knew_ Morwen—he could scarcely believe that she would abandon her home while she still had left so much as a sliver of pride, nor even the barest hope that Húrin would return and set things to rights. She had been driven from Ladros as a girl, and would never again consent to being ejected from her home. And given the difficulty with which she had sent Túrin away from her, it seemed impossible that she would be parted from Niënor as well.

At least one thing from Glaurung’s mouth had been true. Túrin had grown up in comfort in Doriath, while Morwen and Niënor had labored in subjection to base Men who made thralls of the Edain, despite being thralls themselves. For as long as he had dwelled in Menegroth and in Nargothrond, he had never known hunger (memories of keen hunger in the wilderness slipped away from him now), but Niënor had known it from her earliest days, and might feel hunger’s bite even now. Who was he to live in comfort while they suffered? Who was he to strike out against the forces of Angband in the south of Beleriand, and make not even one attempt to rescue them from the suffering they endured in the north?

If Morwen and Niënor lived still, it seemed unlikely that the Easterlings would kill them now. It seemed unlikely that they would suddenly begin mistreating them worse now than they had before. And how much of his distress was manufactured by the voice of Glaurung, anyways?  Finduilas, meanwhile, might meet her death very soon now. But the idea of leaving his mother and sister to suffer for any longer than they already had, that was like the knife twisting deeper and deeper into his ribs.

Túrin got unsteadily up to his feet, swallowing hard. He mopped his face with his hand, and readied himself to continue northwards. As he did, something caught his eye. In the gray wilderness, there was a faint glimmer of gold.

-0-0-0-

Nargothrond was not entirely without recourse, in case of a siege or assault. The city had been constructed by the Kasari, after all—those who dwelled under mountains understood the importance of having more than one door out of their cities. In particular, Nargothrond’s ‘back doors’ were a network of escape tunnels that snaked for miles under the Taur-en-Faroth and the Talath Dirnen, opening at many points on the surface. Of course, the alternate doors could not be so large that enemies would detect them; that would defeat the point of having them in the first place. What that meant, simply, was that if Nargothrond ever needed to be evacuated through those doors, they could not escape all at once.

Finduilas took some small satisfaction in the knowledge that most of her people (those who had not gone to fight on Tumhalad, anyways) had managed to escape before Glaurung’s host fell upon Nargothrond. They had had advance warning soon enough to manage that. When the dragon and the Orcs arrived, they found only a few hundred Edhil remaining. The final defense of Nargothrond had been pitiful, perhaps, and well-nigh all of the defenders slain, but the invaders did not find the great bounty of prisoners they had no doubt been hoping for.

It would have been wiser, Finduilas knew, to have left at the head of the escape parties. It would have been wiser to lead Nargothrond’s people to safety herself, instead of staying behind like this, stubbornly refusing to go until they had all gone. She had lingered beyond all hope of escape, had been captured, and had only a small consolation that the Orcs, judging from their thwarted rage, had not found the doors into the tunnels.

_A clawed hand, thick with knotted muscle, buried itself in Finduilas’s hair, yanking her head back. She stared up into the milky eyes of the Orc-captain, her expression calm, even as he jerked her head further back._

_“Where have your people gone?” he snarled, his lips curling back to reveal broken teeth._

_“Is it not said that the Eldar can vanish from sight of their own will?” A hard, ringing laugh tore from her mouth. “They are here, all around us.”_

Hope was not kind to Finduilas. It had not been since before the Nirnaeth, when she had watched Gwindor ride away and she had hoped that he would return to her soon, alive and unharmed. Hope had turned cruel and faithless, and yet Finduilas had still dared to taste of it. Her father was dead. That much had been reported to her by the messengers who had fled Tumhalad. Her father was dead, and could not help her. But there had been no report of either Túrin or Gwindor, no report of whether they were slain or lived still. Finduilas had hoped, dared to hope that one or both of them would return and aid her, and beyond that, it seemed too cruel for them to hurry back to Nargothrond and find her gone. Impractical as it might have been, she couldn’t bear the idea of either of them searching for her, without knowing where she had gone.

But hope had proven itself no friend to Finduilas, once again. Gwindor was nowhere to be found, and Túrin… No matter how she had cried out to him, no matter how she had screamed for him to hear her, his eyes had remained transfixed upon the dragon, and his ears deaf to her pleas.

Finduilas had been driven out from Nargothrond with around twenty other nissi—a few noble girls, her cupbearer, three household guards who had been stripped of their weapons before their hands had been bound, and others whom Finduilas did not know. The Orcs drove them on swiftly, spurring on anyone who lagged behind with a none-too-gentle nudge with the butts of their spears. Nargothrond had passed out of sight; if Finduilas gazed backwards, there was but a spire of black smoke to mark where her despoiled home had been.

For what was either the fourth or fifth time now, Finduilas tested the strength of the leather bonds that had been strapped around her wrists just after crossing the bridge. She grimaced as the edges of the bonds cut into her wrists, but strained against them, nonetheless. They didn’t give, not even slightly, and she bit her lip, and tried again. Still nothing. She cast a surreptitious  glance at her fellow captives, the guards had been given bonds of rope rather than leather, and one of them, Melwen, was doing much the same as Finduilas was, and struggling furiously against the rope, but to no avail.

If she struggled against the leather long enough, surely it must give way. That was what Finduilas told herself as she tried again to loosen her bonds. It would give way, and her hands would be free—then, she would have a better chance of escape, and would take it. The Orcs were armed only with swords and spears, and were on foot; no arrows to shoot Finduilas down from a distance, and no mounts to carry the Orcs to her speedily. If she could just get past them quickly, it would be simple.

Asides from Melwen, the others made no attempt to break free of their bonds. They stared straight ahead, dull-eyed as they stumbled down the Orcs’ path. If Finduilas escaped, she would have to leave them behind. _Don’t think about that_. She sucked in a deep breath, and told herself not to dwell on it, just as she couldn’t dwell on the fact that her home since birth was now the domain of Orcs and the Father of Dragons, and couldn’t dwell on the fact that her father lied dead beneath the open sky. She couldn’t dwell on the fact that Túrin and Gwindor and many others whom she had called ‘friend’ were likely dead with them. She had to find a way back to what remained of her people. She could not pass through the gates of Angband.

_“Gwindor?”_

_Finduilas slid her hand over Gwindor’s shoulder, only to draw it swiftly back when he flinched and started, as though he’d not heard her when she had come into the room. On second though, that likely was the case, after all. That was how it had been the last time she was called here._

_Gwindor stared uncomprehendingly at her, but after a moment, his gray eyes cleared, and he smiled. That smile twitched and faltered, and evaporated hardly a moment later. “Finduilas…” His voice, at least, was still the same as Finduilas had remembered, but that made the sting but keener, when nothing else about him was. Gwindor stayed in his seat on the low couch in Guilin’s chambers, staring up at her as though she wasn’t quite real. Even after a month back desperately thin; there was a gaunt hunger in his face that clean clothes and all of his father and betrothed’s ministrations could not hide. “Why…”_

_The smile that Finduilas put up was no more convincing than Gwindor’s. She could see its reflection in his eyes and it was about as lifelike as one of the smiles seen on the statues in one of Nargothrond’s many courtyards. “Your father called for me. He said you seemed…” Guilin’s panicked face when Finduilas had opened her door for him rose to mind, and she frowned slightly. “…distressed.”_

_Gwindor looked away, his shoulders stiffening. “It’s nothing for you to concern yourself with,” he said shortly. After a moment, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and the muscles in his lined, scarred face snapped taut. “And it’s over now,” he added lamely._

_Finduilas sat down beside him, silent. Just as silently, Gwindor reached out and grasped her hand in his own, rubbing his thumb over the silver band on her finger. His hand shook slightly. Finduilas clamped her mouth shut, and told herself that a month was not nearly enough time to overcome the ill effects of eighteen years’ imprisonment in Angband._

_“Do you know?” he whispered, his shaking hand curling tighter around hers. “I don’t think I dreamed even once when I was there. The days and nights are all the same there, hidden under smoke. When I was awake, it was the clanging of the hammer on the anvil, the rumble of Thangorodrim, the crack of the whip. When I slept, it was all the same. It’s all so…” He stared helplessly at Finduilas, who stared helplessly back. “It’s so_ quiet _here,” he choked out._

Finduilas knew well what awaited her in Angband.

The bonds would not break, they would not fray, they would not even give a little. Finduilas had not thought that she possessed so little strength in her limbs, but her muscles were no equal to leather, it seemed. _I should have left while there was still time,_ she berated herself. _What sort of ruler am I if I concern myself more with my own wants than with the welfare of my people?_ They weren’t coming, anyways. Gwindor and Túrin, if either of them were still alive, could not have known which way the Orcs had taken her, and how likely was it that they lived still, anyways? Gwindor had never returned from Tumhalad, and it was rare indeed that Glaurung allowed foes to escape from him.

Finduilas looked back towards Nargothrond—the last time, she told herself. The wind whipped cold and biting across the plains, and it was perhaps for that reason that the plume of smoke rising from the city had already thinned, becoming fainter to the eye. Come the morning, it might be gone, if Glaurung did not care to set a fresh blaze. There would be nothing to mark where Nargothrond had been.

With each step further from the coast, the possibility of reaching a safe haven grew dimmer. The realms of northern Beleriand were all destroyed, save for Turgon’s hidden city, and Finduilas had no confidence in her ability to find it. Doriath was open to her, but not to the better part of her people, and Finduilas knew that Thingol’s heart would not soften enough to allow the Noldor of Nargothrond to dwell in his kingdom, just because she asked. The only safe place now was the Bay of Balar, and the isle near to it. But between here and there were innumerable Orcs and other fell creatures of Morgoth, and Finduilas knew that the escape tunnels opened at various points on the plains, but she knew not where to look for the doors.

A flash of movement in the distance caught Finduilas’s eye, and she frowned. Someone was running towards them, tearing across the hills. Finduilas’s eyes showed her a distorted face, whose mouth bared sharp, oversized teeth. One of the Orcs, then, but why? Did they bear a message from Glaurung or the Orc-captain? Were they to be conducted back to Nargothrond, and if so, to what purpose? Were they to be killed here instead?

Finduilas would not have to wait long to receive her answer; the Orc ran as though the very sting of death threatened to prick them if they stopped. But suddenly, they drew their sword, and Finduilas’s heart seized in her chest.

The sword’s blade was black.

Túrin had come, after all.

In the years before Túrin came to Nargothrond, Finduilas had heard many rumors of a warrior with a helmet whose visage was so terrifying that his enemies would often flee from him rather than do battle. Finduilas could remember her father sending word to this warrior, instructing him not to engage any Orcs within Nargothrond’s borders. She had guessed the warrior in question to be Túrin when she first saw the Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin, and she saw now that the reputation of the helmet and the warrior who bore it to be in no way exaggerated.

At the very moment that Gurthang cut into its first victim, fully half the Orcs fled the sight of the Dragon-helm. Melwen dove at the fallen Orc, taking a knife from his belt and using it to cut through the rope binding her hands. While Melwen freed the other two guards, and the three of them dove into the fray, Finduilas and the rest of the captives backed away from the fight. Many of the captives who still had their hands bound huddled close together, averting their gaze from the battle. Finduilas stood apart from them, her eyes transfixed upon Túrin.

She had never seen him fight. Finduilas had never been to war, had never so much as held a sword, let alone used one to kill. When someone was called valiant and mighty in battle, Finduilas understood it intellectually, but not viscerally. Here, now, she saw Túrin cut through the Orcs that remained as though they were made of water. The dead grass was splattered with their blood, and their bodies collapsed on the hard earth like stone statues cast over by careless children. Finduilas bit her lip. It was amazing to behold, but terrible as well.

He was alive. Finduilas had not thought that, once snared, Glaurung would allow Túrin to leave Nargothrond alive. He would be incinerated in dragon-fire, or made sport for the Orcs. Finduilas could scarcely imagine how he had gotten away, but it didn’t matter. He had come for her, after all. That was enough.

The battle was over soon enough. Túrin and the three guards made short work of the Orcs who hadn’t fled in the face of the Dragon-helm. When the last Orc collapsed to the ground, a peculiar silence fell over the survivors. Melwen and her fellow guards set about freeing the hands of those who were still bound, saying not a word as they did so. The ones they freed nodded or smiled gratefully, and were similarly silent.

Túrin and Finduilas stared at each other, the former’s eyes shining almost wildly under his helmet, and the latter’s heart too full to let her speak. Finally, Túrin closed the space between them, his gait slightly unsteady, though Finduilas could discern no sign of injury. He pulled his helmet from his head and let it fall to the ground with a clatter, making the Edhel nearest to them jump. He drew a small knife from his belt. “I’ll cut the straps off of your wrists,” he muttered, not meeting her gaze.

Finduilas smiled weakly, and held her bound hands out to him. “Thank you.”

The bonds that she’d not been able even to loosen split like butter under Túrin’s knife. Finduilas rubbed her chafed wrists, wincing slightly to touch her raw skin. However, the pain was worth it, she supposed, if it meant she would not die today. (She didn’t allow herself the time to think that it would have been better if her father was still alive as well. There would be time for that later.)

Túrin reached out as if to touch her shoulder, but stopped, and after a long moment let his hand fall limp at his side. Despite everything, Finduilas felt a spike of frustration rear inside of her. He never touched her. She had always been something remote to him, something too important to be touched. But it didn’t matter now. There were more important things to worry about.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m not.” In that, Finduilas was luckier than most. “How… did you find us?”

At that, something like a laugh, such a soft sound, slipped from Túrin’s mouth. “Your dress.”

“Ah.” Finduilas glanced down at the gold fabric of her surcoat and her gown underneath, and almost felt like laughing herself. “I see.”

Finduilas felt several pairs of eyes on her back, and she turned to face the Edhil who had been taken from Nargothrond with her, drawing up to her full height. Any attempt at royal dignity was marred by her muddied skirt and disheveled hair, but she said to them, in a clear, even voice, “Our first priority should be finding shelter. Do any of you know if one of the evacuation tunnels opens nearby?”

One of the nissi whom Finduilas didn’t know, a tall nís with dark hair and eyes, stepped forward and nodded. “There should be a door a few miles south of here.”

“Good. Lead us there.”

The next hour was passed in tense silence, everyone watching the horizon for any sign of Orcs. Finduilas and the nís acting as their guide were at the head of the party, Túrin close behind, the tip of his sword dragging the ground. The three guards took up positions at each side of the group, and at the rear, their eyes keen and their faces grim. This bid for escape could so easily be thwarted by even a small party of Orcs, and if they accidentally gave away one of the entrances to the tunnels…

At length, the nís guiding them stopped at a boulder that towered even over Túrin. She circled round it, running her hand over the mossy rock. Finally, she found what it was she was looking for and paused, murmuring a few words to the stone.

Finduilas watched, amazed, as the seemingly seamless rock slid aside to reveal a passageway down into the tunnels. The passageway was not completely dark—besides from the daylight pouring into it, Finduilas spied several pinpricks of light flickering down in the gloom. There were Fëanorian lamps placed at intervals in the tunnels, but their blue light did not flicker as this light did. If the light was torchlight, as Finduilas suspected it was, that was a good sign—there were Nargothrond Edhil close enough nearby for the torches to be light, and not yet burned down.

“Everyone, please go inside, and go down the steps one at a time,” their guide instructed them. “I will close the door once everyone is inside.”

“Impressive,” Finduilas heard Túrin murmur as they discerned the narrow staircase. His voice held a note she had often heard there before, that of an attempt to restrain surprise.

“Indeed,” Finduilas agreed, nodding even though she doubted he could see her doing so. At the same time, she wished she had asked Finrod or Orodreth (who would have been apprised of such things upon becoming king) more about what had gone into the tunnels’ construction. This would have been useful for her to know beforehand.

The tunnels were not that far underground, here; Finduilas counted thirty steps in total before reaching the bottom of the staircase into them. Hopefully there was enough earth between them and the surface that any Orc passing by overhead wouldn’t be able to hear them. Finduilas looked around her, brow furrowed.

As a child, she had played in the mouths of the tunnels, where they opened on Nargothrond; many had done the same as her. There the tunnels were cool but not unpleasantly so, amply lit by the Fëanorian lamps, and the walls were engraved with carvings of deer browsing in forest and vale, of ships on the open sea, the Ainur singing the world into being, and many other things beside. Finduilas hadn’t expected this particular stretch of the tunnels to resemble what she remembered from her childhood, not so far from Nargothrond, but the differences were stark, still.

The walls and ceilings were of the same rough stone as they were at their mouths in Nargothrond, but the only markings Finduilas saw were ones directly across from the staircase, that read ‘southwest’ and ‘northeast’, depending on what direction a traveler took. The Fëanorian lamps were fewer here, set so far apart that each one was just a dim glimmer of blue light in the distance. Torches had been lit nearby; Finduilas saw a succession of flickering orange lights to the southwest. _At least I have a good idea of which way to go._

When she started down the southwest path, no one gainsaid her, not even Túrin, who when decisions were made usually at least had an opinion ready to air. They followed after her in silence, and for a long time, the only sounds that came to Finduilas’s ears were the dull thud of footsteps on the hard-packed earth, the occasional grunt when someone stubbed their toe against a rock, and the whistling of Túrin’s labored breathing just behind her.

 _How many will we find here?_ Finduilas wondered. She had commanded those who’d not gone to battle to travel directly to Balar, when word had first come of what transpired on Tumhalad. If that command had been disobeyed by some, Finduilas was willing to forgive it—those who waited, or who went in entirely the wrong directly, were acting from the same motivations that had led her to stay in Nargothrond, even as the enemy drew ever nearer.

But how many were still down here? The tunnels didn’t stretch all the way to Balar; anyone traveling to the coast would have to leave the shelter of the tunnels and go aboveground eventually. How many Edhil were still somewhere in the tunnels? The tunnels were large, wide enough that ten adults could comfortably stand shoulder-to-shoulder. Finduilas could see some of the less enterprising of her people preferring to hide here until things had quieted down outside, rather than head directly for Balar.

Eventually, Finduilas began to hear voices. The sound was faint at first, like the current of a river heard from far off in the distance. As she drew closer, that faint noise grew louder and louder, until it was a cacophony of panic and relief, of shouts and crying.

Almost as soon as Finduilas began to be able to distinguish individual voices, she was able to discern the physical forms of the speakers in the gloom. As she drew nearer, Finduilas saw that this was no small group of Edhil, their voices magnified by the tunnel walls. Close to one hundred Edhil were gathered in the tunnel, all in varying states of distress. Finduilas searched the faces in the crowd, hoping against hope to see Gwindor there, or at the least, someone that she knew.

That attempt was soon foiled when the first Edhel from the other group recognized her in the shadows. “Princess!” Soon, Finduilas found herself fairly swarmed by Edhil who pushed and jostled at one another to get closer to her. She found herself patting people’s shoulders and murmuring ‘Thank you’ and ‘I’m well enough’ and ‘I’m sorry’ and many other things that would escape her later.

“Lady Finduilas.”

A voice, far calmer than the rest, sounded in Finduilas’s ear. She turned, and a smile, weak as it might have been, sprang to her lips when she saw the one the voice belonged to. Aderthon, one of her father’s captains, stood at her shoulder. He looked slightly burnt, but otherwise none the worse for wear. “Captain,” she said warmly. “I am happy to see you alive.”

Aderthon nodded briefly. “As am I to see you well, your Highness.” He grimaced something dark flashing in his eyes. “Though it is a pity the same cannot be said for more.”

“I see.” Finduilas couldn’t quite bring herself to ask after Gwindor, though she longed more than ever to know. The trouble was that she suspected she already knew the answer. “Have you come upon any other survivors of the battle here in the tunnels?”

“No, your Highness, none. Well, except…” Aderthon’s eyes strayed past Finduilas. His grim, smoke-stained face broke in a grin. He strode past Finduilas and clapped Túrin on the shoulder. “Well, I should have known dragon fire wouldn’t be enough to kill _you_.”

Túrin smiled briefly back at Aderthon. “If they want to kill me, they’ll have to send something made of sterner stuff than a dragon. I don’t think I’m fated to die quite so prosaically.”

“They’ll have to send a Balrog, then. That’s suitably dramatic for you.”

Túrin let out a barking laugh. “That _would_ be a sight to see.”

The sound of Túrin’s voice mercifully took some of the attention off of Finduilas, as several of the Edhil gathered around her moved towards him instead. Most showed the same relief and happiness they had exhibited when approaching Finduilas. However, the mood was not universally welcoming.

“You!” a voice cried out in the crowd. “If not for your bridge, we would still have a home!”

“The Mormegil has brought ruin upon us all with his evil counsels!” another shouted. “Sone of Ill-Fate, indeed!”

A few more muttered likewise, though at the very least, most of the Edhil seemed unmoved by such arguments. Túrin, however, seemed not to notice that it was only a few out of more than a hundred who felt that way. All the color drained from his face, the muscles in his jaw going taut.

Unable to see those who had shouted, Finduilas glared at those who had muttered. “Fine time to be casting blame,” she snapped, “when none of us are out of danger yet. And I don’t—“ She raised her voice enough for all to hear “—remember too many protesting the construction of that bridge, when it was first proposed.”

Those who had muttered had the grace to look abashed. Those who shouted, Finduilas didn’t know. From their silence, she could guess.

Finduilas had another concern, though. She turned her attention back to Túrin, who stared cagily at the crowd, as though one or more might leap forward and attack him at any moment. “May I have a word with you?” she asked him quietly, gesturing towards the deserted stretch of the tunnel they had come from.

Túrin straightened and nodded, trying visibly to reassemble his face into something suitably composed, though he stopped short at ‘stiff.’ “Of course.”

She led him back a-ways from the crowd, far enough that if they spoke quietly, no one would be able to hear them. Once Finduilas stopped, and turned back to him, Túrin’s attempt at composure promptly shattered. He ran his hands through his hair and groaned. “Are you going to berate me over that blasted bridge as well?” he asked, a peculiar mixture of misery and defiance in his voice. “You have every right to; as I recall, you did not wish it built.”

 _How easily affected he is by the ill-will of others_. “I meant what I said,” Finduilas told him gently. “Nothing is accomplished by casting blame; if anything, it only distracts from the task at hand.” She sighed. “Besides, once they know where we were, it was only a matter of time. With the bridge, they drove us out in a day. Without it, they would have starved us out over weeks or even months, and kept too close a watch on the Talath Dirnen for any of us to have escaped through the tunnels.”

Túrin nodded jerkily. “Perhaps.” He looked at Finduilas then, his eyes wide, opening his mouth and shutting it again. “Finduilas… Gwindor…”

“…Is dead,” Finduilas supplied flatly.

He nodded mutely.

Finduilas shut her eyes, and turned away.

The news seemed almost anticlimactic, in more ways than one. She’d told herself over and over that he was dead, and even if that was primarily to avoid the snares of false hope, finally learning that Gwindor was indeed dead wasn’t quite so great a shock as it should have been. Finduilas had spent the better part of eighteen years believing him dead. Now that she knew him to be dead, it seemed her sorrow had burned itself out, and left numbness in its place.

But it really _was_ anticlimactic, wasn’t it? Gwindor had survived nigh to twenty years’ imprisonment in Angband, had managed to escape and return to Nargothrond, only to die now. Finduilas had wished better for him, but then, she imagined that to him, any happy future would have involved the two of them marrying, and not involved her heart turning to another.

“Was he in great pain?” The question was designed to hurt, and yet Finduilas found herself asking it anyways.

Túrin hesitated for a moment, before shaking his head. “No,” he said quietly. “I don’t think he was.”

Finduilas paused only a moment to wonder if he was lying, before deciding that it didn’t matter much. Whether or not Gwindor had been in pain, he wasn’t anymore. There were other things she needed to concern herself with. “We will make for Balar; that’s the safest place for us now. Hopefully the Orcs haven’t found the—“

“Finduilas.” Túrin’s voice cracked on her name. His face twisted, breath whistling through gritted teeth. “I cannot stay.”

“What?” She stared incredulously at him. “If this is about what those Edhil said, you shouldn’t take it to heart. They only spoke thusly because they were in pain, and wanted someone to blame. If you had not been close at hand, they might well have turned on me instead of you.”

“That’s not why.”

“Then what is it?”

“My… My mother and sister are shut up in Dor-lómin,” Túrin explained with visible difficulty. “I must go to them, and rescue them, if I can.”

Finduilas frowned deeply. Túrin had spoken of his family to her in bits and pieces, relaying anecdotes and memories, but never where they had lived. Once she knew for certain who he was, she’d known that he must have been born in Dor-lómin before removing to Doriath, but it was still a little startling to hear him speak of it aloud. _This isn’t like him. Not once in five years do I hear him speak of any desire to liberate his family—I had supposed them all dead, from how he spoke of them. And now, the desire comes hot upon him so suddenly._ Suspicious pricked at the corners of Finduilas’s mind. “Who told you of this?”

Túrin squared his jaw and said nothing.

Finduilas took a step forward and rested her hand upon his arm. “Who told you of this?”

“…Glaurung taunted me with it when I spoke with him” Túrin explained slowly, crossing his arms around his chest, his shoulders stiff.

“But the dragon speaks only to deceive!” Finduilas protested. “You’ve not been in contact with your family for as long as you’ve lived in Nargothrond; you don’t even know if they’re still in Dor-lómin at all. Why would he tell you that except to lure you into some kind of trap?”

“I know this!” Túrin exclaimed, his nostrils flaring. “Not for a moment do I think Glaurung said this to me out of compassion for them!”

“Then why do this? And with winter approaching as well!”

Túrin swallowed hard, his eyes over-bright. Finduilas didn’t think she had ever seen such a look of panic on his face as she saw there now. She’d never known him to panic, no matter how bad a situation he had gotten into. Shout, maybe, or alternately grow cold and silent, but though he might be impulsive, he wasn’t prone to panicking. Was this the dragon’s work as well? “I have to do this,” he said thickly.

Finduilas stared up into his face, aghast. She could already guess that, one way or another, Túrin would not find what he sought in Dor-lómin. She suspected that Túrin knew that, too, so there would be no use appealing to him to stay using that angle.

She would not use force to restrain him. After the short work Túrin had made of the Orcs aboveground, Finduilas was uncertain that any of her rattled, desperate people down here could constrain him for long. Finduilas was quite certain, though, that if she attempted to keep Túrin with the group that way, it would cost her every ounce of respect and regard he had for her. That was a price she could not pay, not ever.

Then what was she to say, to keep him from going off into the Orc-infested wilderness alone? What was she to say, to keep him at her side? Tell him she loved him? Finduilas could have laughed at the thought, if the idea didn’t make her stomach twist itself into knots. She had held back out of respect for Gwindor. It didn’t matter that she was no longer in love with him, as she had been; she had no desire to add to his suffering, nor to the humiliation he felt at being pushed aside in the king’s counsel in favor of Túrin. Well, Gwindor was not even cold in his grave, and Finduilas found her guilt over causing him pain lessened not even slightly.

On top of all that, Finduilas had her people to think about. She had lingered in Nargothrond too long simply out of some hope of seeing Túrin or Gwindor again, and had nearly paid for it with her freedom, or even her life. Finduilas was supposed to be a leader to her people, and with her father dead, that was more true now than it had ever been before. She could not abandon them, not for one Adan, and she could not devote all her energy to keeping him with her when she had them to think about.

“Túrin…”

He flinched and pulled his cloak closer about him. “Don’t call me by that name,” Túrin muttered, his gaze traveling to the crowd behind them. “I’d sooner you called me ‘Thurin’ than that.”

Finduilas smiled softly at him. “But that’s not your name,” she replied, echoing what he had said when she first gave him that name. “And the name your parents gave you isn’t something you can cast on and off like a cloak.” She sighed heavily. “If you wish to go to Dor-lómin, I will not stop you. …Tell me, what are your mother and sister’s names?”

Túrin tilted his head slightly. “My mother’s name is Morwen, and my sister’s, Niënor. Why?”

“I may make some inquiries of my own. Now, I believe I saw a passage up to the surface near the rest of the party. It would be better to use that one than go all the way back to the one we used to get down here.”

Finduilas kept her gaze straight in front of her as she led Túrin back to the rest of the group, and to the exit point back to the surface. She would have liked to have kept her emotions off of her face, but judging from the way the Edhil in her path drew back and looked away, she doubted she had managed it.

She followed Túrin to the top of the steps, silent, her heart pounding. He pushed the door open, gray light flooding into passageway. Just as he was about to leave, Finduilas found her voice enough to call, “Túrin? Wait a moment.”

He looked back at her from the doorway, searching her face with his brow knit. “What is it?” Túrin asked quietly.

Finduilas drew a deep breath. “I… I’m not sure how long your errand will take you. Nor what you will find. But… when you are done…” She paused, swallowing. _It shouldn’t be so difficult to ask. It’s a simple thing, and he’s already sworn his loyalty to Nargothrond once._ “…When you are done, will you come back to me?”

Túrin paused, his hand braced on the threshold of the door. But then, he nodded, and smiled, like clouds passing from the sun on a gray winter day. “If there is any way I can return to you, I will.”

As she pulled the door shut behind him, Finduilas rested her hand on the stone, and wondered with a heavy heart when that might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Talath Dirnen** —‘The Guarded Plain’; the empty land in the west of Beleriand that was located between Nargothrond to the west and Doriath to the east. Amon Rûdh was located in the east of the Talath Dirnen. This region was uninhabited except by the scouts and spies of Nargothrond (For as long as that realm lasted).  
>  **Edain** —Men of the three houses (the Houses of Bëor, Hador and Haleth) who were faithful to the Elves throughout the First Age; after the War of Wrath they were gifted with the land of Númenor and became known as the Dúnedain; after the Akallabêth they established Arnor and Gondor (singular: Adan) (Sindarin)  
>  **Kasari** —a common name for the Dwarves among the Noldor, adapted from the Khuzdul Khazâd (singular: Kasar) (Quenya)  
>  **Taur-en-Faroth** —‘Forest of the hunters’ (Sindarin); the forest that laid on the western bank of the River Narog.  
>  **Edhil** —Elves (singular: Edhel) (Sindarin)  
>  **Eldar** —‘People of the Stars’ (Quenya); a name first given to the Elves by Oromë when he found them by Cuiviénen, but later came to refer only to those who answered the summons to Aman and set out on the March, with those who chose to remain by Cuiviénen coming to be known as the Avari; the Eldar were composed of these groups: the Vanyar, Noldor (those among them who chose to go to Aman), and the Teleri (including their divisions: the Lindar, Falmari, Sindar and Nandor).  
>  **Nissi** —women (singular: nís)


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it turns out that what I originally thought was going to be a single chapter has had to be split into three parts. Chapter Three will be posted in a week's time, and Chapter Four whenever after that time I'm finished with it.

The Taur-im-Duinath had always been an empty spot on whatever map Finduilas happened to look at. A vast forest in the south of Beleriand, shadowed and wild, where no one lived. They said the soil was poor for planting; they said the forest was haunted with the spirts of Edhil killed before Ithil ever rose over Ennor. As to the former, Finduilas would have to wait until spring came to know for sure; to the latter, she had seen no trace of disembodied spirits since entering the forest.

The Isle of Balar was too crowded already to comfortably accommodate all of Nargothrond’s surviving people. There were some who resided there now, but they were there primarily as Finduilas’s representatives. The land at the mouth of the Sirion theoretically offered shelter—it was carpeted with a forest of reeds so tall that they’d stand higher than the roof of a good-sized house. However, there was already a community living there, and once enough of the reeds were cut away to accommodate all of the Edhil who would have to live there too, they wouldn’t provide much shelter anymore.

Finduilas and the chiefs of the surviving lords of her city had then settled upon the Taur-im-Duinath as their best option for a settlement site. The forest was vast enough to conceal their presence here, and there were resources enough for them to build winter shelters, at least until spring came and they could search further afield for stone to quarry and cart back here.

 _‘Tis a good thing we started construction right away,_ Finduilas thought with a grimace as the wind battered on the wall of the house she now inhabited with many others. _‘Tis a good thing we started gathering food to store away immediately as well._

All told, a little over a thousand Edhil assembled in the Taur-im-Duinath after Nargothrond’s destruction. Besides the many (too many) who had been cut down at Tumhalad, not everyone who escaped the city alive survived the journey south. It was regrettable, a testament to the fact that they had had few skilled warriors among them, and that few had thought to bring food with them on the road south.

Many of the Sindar with no Noldorin blood had long since made for Doriath, and Finduilas could hardly blame them. If she could lead the Noldor among her people across Doriath’s borders, she would have done so at the outset. As it was, she had sent tidings of Nargothrond’s destruction and her survival, and a request for whatever aid Thingol and Melian could give with those who had left for Doriath, and saw to those who remained.

Finduilas had set the carpenters to work building houses, and the smiths to aiding them, once they had found iron ore that could be forced into something usable. What they had built, Finduilas was told, were the same kind of temporary dwellings that had been built for those whose presence had been necessary during the hewing of Nargothrond. They were long houses with a single room, with a large hearth at their centers. The houses could each accommodate about eighty Edhil, though Finduilas thought there were a few more than that crammed into the house she had chosen. Around the time construction had finished, the first snow began to fall. Then more, then more.

Their food supply was starting to wear thin. Of course, Finduilas sent out hunting parties every day, and sent out fishing parties who made their way to the Gelion to fish in the thankfully free-flowing waters. Of course, melted snow provided a plentiful water supply and, of course, Edhil could survive for longer on less food than could the Edain or even the Kasari. Finduilas was almost glad Túrin had split from her group; the way they were rationing their food, the Edhil could get by with only slight to moderate discomfort, but Túrin would likely not be faring nearly so well.

Túrin…

Finduilas sighed and pulled her borrowed cloak closer about her. In deference to her rank, a thin partition had been erected at the corner of this house to grant her privacy. Truth be told, Finduilas rarely availed herself of it. Being so far from the hearth, she often found herself miserably cold if she stayed here. She also found that her people seemed more cheerful when she was out among them, and found herself of greater cheer when she was with them. She only withdrew here if she needed to speak with someone in private, or when she needed (or wanted) to think without distractions.

It had been months since she had last seen Túrin. Since then, she’d had no word from him, no sign, not even a dream, as nebulous and unreliable as dreams could be. Had he made it to Dor-lómin, or had he caught his death of cold on the road there? It seemed frankly impossible that, after all else he had survived, Túrin could die from something so mundane as the cold. But the Edain were not so hardy as the Edhil, and even if the cold did not kill Túrin outright, it could weaken him enough to allow Orcs or the Easterlings occupying Dor-lómin to finish him off without much trouble.

 _I wish I could have persuaded him not to go—or to wait until spring, at least_. Finduilas sighed heavily. If she had just tried harder, just tried longer, she might have been able to keep him from wandering out into a frozen land, looking for something they both suspected to be long-gone.

But Finduilas had seen no way at the time to keep Túrin from leaving that would not simply do more harm. If she had known how hard the winter would be, she might have risked restraining him until spring, at least, but there was no helping it. Túrin wasn’t here. Finduilas needed to focus on her people, on getting through this winter.

She pushed aside the partition and started to pick her way towards the hearth, wishing to bring some warmth back into her half-frozen hands. Gradually, after weaving her way through the groups of Edhil huddled together, some speaking in hushed voices and other silent, Finduilas found herself at the hearth. She stoked the fire with the crude poker left out by the hearth, and took a seat beside Íril, her old cupbearer in Nargothrond.

“Have any of the hunting parties returned yet?” she asked quietly, as she held her hands to the fire. Finduilas smiled slightly, and hoped it was convincing.

Íril shook her head. “No, my Queen, there’s been no sign of them.”

Finduilas’s smile froze on her face. “I see. And the fishing party?”

“Not yet, my Queen. But it took them until nightfall to return yesterday. I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t turn up until after dark today as well.”

“Íril.” Finduilas took a moment to arrange her mouth in the semblance of a smile. “I don’t mind if you call me ‘Lady Finduilas.’ This is a refugee camp, not Nargothrond.”

At this, Íril stared down at her hands, her black hair falling over her face. “I suppose it isn’t,” she murmured, “but I still think of you that way. We all do. And with the king dead, you _are_ the queen.”

Yes, Finduilas knew that. She knew it quite well, and frankly, didn’t need to be reminded.

Finduilas stood abruptly, smoothing down her skirt. “I’m going to make the rounds in the other houses. If anyone asks where I am…”

Íril nodded. “I’ll tell them.” She stared into the fire, the light painting her face red. “I never thought we would end up like this,” she muttered.

 _Neither did I_.

-0-0-0-

Túrin winced as another blast of icy wind cut through him. The constant snow flurries, not to mention the fact that the clouds veiled both Sun and stars, made it difficult for him to guess which direction he was walking in. Túrin was reasonably hopeful that he was managing to travel south, but he couldn’t know for certain.

 _The sooner I leave this place, the better. There is naught here worth taking possession of_.

His foray into Dor-lómin and the town where he was born had been an unmitigated disaster. Túrin hardly regretted killing Brodda, after hearing the way the man spoke of Túrin’s kin and seeing the way he treated Aerin. The man was the lowest of men, and the House of Hador was better off without such a one living still. But killing Brodda had cost Aerin and Sador and many other good people their lives, and would, Túrin had realized too late, make things very difficult for the House of Hador in days after.

 _Have I brought ruin upon Nargothrond through rash pride only to doom my house through rash actions?_ Túrin drew his black cloak closer about him and gritted his teeth. _Gwindor may have been wrong; my Doom is not entirely stayed, after all._

_…Or, perhaps, only when I am at Finduilas’s side._

He had, at least, learned that Morwen and Niënor were long gone from this place, that they were not dead, not made thralls or playthings for Orcs as he had feared. It was entirely likely that Morwen had finally accepted Thingol and Melian’s offer to shelter them in Doriath, and that they now lived in safety and comfort in Menegroth.

On the one hand, it was a relief. Túrin could barely stand the idea that his mother and sister had been humiliated and abused in Dor-lómin while he lived in comfort in Doriath and later in Nargothrond. That Morwen had put aside pride was comforting (if surprising), though it stung Túrin to think of the hope she must have put aside as well. Thingol and Melian would surely welcome them.

On the other hand, it was all the clearer that Glaurung had manipulated him into abandoning Finduilas and the other Elves of Nargothrond to go chasing after shadows and memories. It was a fool’s errand, and Túrin a fool for taking it up.

_Finduilas was right; this was just a ploy to trap a fool. No doubt Glaurung hoped I would be killed, or captured and brought before the Enemy as a trophy._

_I know where Niënor and Lady Morwen are. Even if I may not return to Menegroth, I can be certain of their safety. I should return to Finduilas_. He was bound by his word to return to her side, and even were he not, to her side he would go. She had been too good to him for her goodness to be repaid with desertion. He would not fail her.

As Túrin trudged on through the snow, his surroundings began to seem familiar to him. He wondered at them, but at last he realized that he was near to the Eithel Ivrin. He remembered the place well. Gwindor had had him drink the sweet, shockingly cold water to unlock his grief after Beleg’s death. He had stared into the starlit water after crying himself out, too tired to do anything but sit there and stare at the reflections of the stars.

It might do him some good to visit Ivrin one last time, before journeying south in earnest. Perhaps the waters would free his mind of whatever of the dragon’s malice remained.

Túrin made his way over the hills towards the pool, his heart starting to lighten. How welcome it would be to drink from those waters just once more, before he would have to forsake the land of his birth for the time being. But as he crested the last hill before Eithel Ivrin should have come into sight, Túrin stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the sight before him in dismay.

Túrin remembered well the sparkling waters of the pool, their endless laughter as they fell into the Narog, and the green wood of Núath that surrounded it. It had been a lovely place, when last he had been here. What he saw now bore no resemblance to that lovely place. The reek of rotting vegetation, formerly muted by the cold, was carried up to Túrin by the wind, and the foul stench was enough to make his stomach heave. Burned trees stood black and naked against the gray sky, and still more lay on their sides, their great roots clutching at the sky.

The great stone basin of Ivrin had been smashed, shattered into great shards that spanned the whole hollow. Without its basin, the waters of Ivrin had spilled out across all the lower ground of the hollow, forming a frozen, desolate quagmire dotted with broken rock, upon which sat forlorn, frost-coated leaves.

 _Ever further south does Morgoth reach with grasping hands_.

Túrin stumbled down the hill, his heart leaden in his chest. On level with the ruin of Ivrin and the Núath, he felt a scream build in his throat. Swallowing down on it, he instead murmured, “Never again will I drink the draught of peace,” and turned away from the ruined pool. His eyes stung.

Then, came the sound of crunching leaves, and a snapping twig.

Túrin whirled around to find two strangers swathed in gray cloaks standing about thirty feet away from him, staring at him. The larger of the two figures wore a gleaming helmet on their head, adorned with a plume of white feathers. Through a thin gap where their cloak parted, Túrin could see more of the same gleaming armor over the stranger’s chest.

He paused and frowned, curling his hand over Gurthang’s hilt. Strangers encountered in the wild rarely made for pleasant conversationalists these days. If it was just the two of them, then Túrin would have no trouble. If there were more lurking about, let them come. But something about that armor stayed his hand. After a moment’s pondering, Túrin called out, in the Sindarin he had learned at Thingol’s court, “Greetings, strangers.”

To Túrin’s relief, the figure in the armor replied, also in Sindarin, “Greetings. ‘Tis miserable weather for traveling.” The stranger’s voice was deep and strong, and distinctly masculine.

Túrin found himself smiling at this. The pull of muscles felt strange and stiff; he thought that the last time he had smiled was before he had left for Dor-lómin. “Indeed it is. Unfortunately, urgent errands rarely wait until spring to be carried out.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

Túrin closed the distance between himself and his two fellow-travelers. The man in armor had a fair-haired, slightly wispy beard, and blue eyes as bright and clear as the summer sky. In looks and stature he could easily be one of Túrin’s kinsmen, something that pleased him; of Men, none but an Adan could wear armor of that sort without being a thief (And likely a murderer as well). Beyond that, Túrin thought that there was something familiar about him, though he couldn’t place it. The smaller of the two travelers drew back slightly, keeping their cloak hood pulled up over their head. Túrin caught sight of bright, piercing gray eyes, and a full mouth quirked in a frown, but little more than that.

His curiosity would not be fully sated until he knew for sure, so Túrin asked, as casually as he could manage. “Your armor is of Elven make, is it not?”

At that, the two travelers stiffened, exchanging wary glances, and neither of them answering Túrin’s question. He might have misspoken—Túrin knew his speech to be too plain for some of those he spoke to—and it might be that these two were brigands after all, and the armor ill-gotten. But Túrin was unafraid as he tugged at the collar of his outer tunic, to reveal the coat of mail underneath. “I’ve heard it said that the Noldor are the greatest craftsmen of the Elves, but I’ve always found Doriathrin steel to be its equal.”

The hooded traveler raised their eyebrows. The armored man just grinned.

“It is good to find another Elf-friend here in the wilderness,” the latter said with a laugh, reaching out and clapping Túrin heartily on the shoulder. For his part, Túrin restrained a wince. “I had feared we’d see no one but Orcs ere we reached our destination.”

“We should be glad _seeing_ Orcs was all we did,” the other traveler muttered, but without any real bite in his voice. He lowered his cloak hood, and Túrin realized to his surprise that this one was in fact an Elf. The Elf smiled faintly at him, his brown face creased with weariness, and with a pang, Túrin was reminded of Gwindor. “Though I am grateful to meet a friend, when our road has been so empty of them.”

Well, this was puzzle. A Man and an Elf, traveling together through the Orc-infested north of Beleriand, with a clear destination in mind. Túrin frowned. “Do you seek Nargothrond?” he asked sharply, staring piercingly at each one of them in turn.

“No,” the Elf replied.

“Our road takes us further north than that,” the armored man told him, and shrugged when the Elf shot a reproving look his way.

Túrin nodded slowly. Good. He had no desire for either of them to walk straight into Glaurung’s jaws (Though hopefully, the devastation the dragon had wreaked on the countryside would have alerted them to something being wrong). In that case, he supposed they sought Doriath, or perhaps the Sons of Fëanor, who now wandered the east of Beleriand, though Túrin wasn’t certain what aid that broken people could offer.

Their paths would likely diverge soon; somehow, Túrin doubted that either of them sought Finduilas and the remnant of her people. It was in his best interest to depart, to leave behind Ivrin, these two mismatched travelers, and all his memories of Dor-lómin and the years he had spent there. And yet, he found himself reluctant. It had been so long since he had last had the company of a Man who wasn’t an Easterling, a hard-bitten outlaw, or one who lived in constant fear of the whip of their master falling upon their back.

 _Perhaps they can answer a question of mine_. Túrin gestured at ruined Eithel Ivrin, and the desolate remains of the Núath beyond it. “Tell me… Do either of you know what it is that caused… _this_?”

The armored man looked about the ruined landscape, troubled. The plume of feathers in his helmet quivered in the wind. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. Voronwë tells me that this place used to be far from the Enemy’s reach, but it must be within reach now.”

Túrin tried to imagine the level of force that would be required to break Eithel Ivrin’s stone basin. The pool had not been so shallow that it could be waded in; anyone seeking to reach the bottom would have had to swim. How many Orcs, with how many axes, broke Ivrin? The labor could easily have taken weeks. The Enemy’s malice was great indeed (and laced with no small amount of pettiness) for him to have gone out of his way to have this place destroyed.

But the Elf, Voronwë, caught sight of something and wandered a-ways away from his companion and from Túrin. He beckoned to the two of them, his face paling all the while. “What’s wrong?” the armored man asked in concern, pressing his hand against Voronwë’s back.

Voronwë stared, white-lipped, at the edge of the mire. “I think I know what did all of this.” He pointed at a spot to the west of them, and slowly drew a line moving directly south. “I know the ground is uneven here, but look _, look_ at where I’m pointing.”

Frowning deeply, Túrin did as Voronwë told him. At first, he could make out nothing unique amidst the felled trees and great shards of rock. He wondered with some irritation if this would be like the days of his adolescence in Doriath, when Beleg or one of the other marchwardens spotted something that Túrin had to come half again as close to to see. But after a few moments’ more of concentration, he saw what it was Voronwë had seen. He froze.

There was a great groove worn in the earth like the track of a snake slithering through river mud. It must have been fifteen feet across, obscured here and there by leaves or ice or rock or fallen trees, but once Túrin noticed it, its presence was obvious to him.

And what’s more, nearby, dotted by fallen leaves but highly visible nonetheless, there was imprinted in the ground a single clawed footprint, impressed deeper in the earth than the track to its side. It would seem that Orcs had not destroyed Eithel Ivrin, after all.

“The Great Worm of Angband walked here not long ago,” Voronwë said to them, his face locked in mingled fear and loathing. “The hour is late if even Glaurung walked unfettered in Beleriand.”

Túrin, meanwhile, had come to a realization that made him clench his fists. “This must have been the path he took to Nargothrond,” he muttered aloud, barely aware that there was anyone to hear him. “He followed the Narog all the way to Tumhalad, all that to draw us out.”

In retrospect, with this before him, it had been a painfully obvious trap. Glaurung had likely known where Nargothrond was from the moment he set off from Angband—at the very least, he seemed to have known that he’d find the city if he followed the Narog long enough. But why besiege a city whose army was intact when you could draw that army out into the open and slaughter them first? Especially if the king’s ear was held by an especially overconfident captain…

“What?!”

All of a sudden, Túrin became aware again of the other two travelers’ scrutiny. The man stared at him, shocked, while Voronwë demanded urgently, “What do you mean by that?”

For a moment, Túrin forgot how slowly news traveled in Beleriand for anyone who was not a king or a member of a king’s court, and merely stared back at them skeptically. But then, he remembered, and yes, it made sense that two travelers in the north of Beleriand who seemed to be avoiding all contact with human and Elven settlements wouldn’t know what Túrin knew.

“I am formerly a captain of Nargothrond,” he explained reluctantly. “I served Orodreth the King these past five years. Early in autumn this year, we received word from our scouts that a great host, led by Glaurung, had issued forth from Angband and was marching south through Beleriand. There were those who wished to flee, but I and certain others advised King Orodreth to make a stand, instead.”

“And Orodreth…”

“He…” Dragon fire leapt from the passages of memory, bright and terrible, consuming all in its path, be the food grass, or horses, or Elves. “…He was slain on the plain of Tumhalad, along with the larger part of Nargothrond’s army. Princess Finduilas survived, and led what remained of her people away from Nargothrond. The city is now Glaurung’s domain.” _Whom I perhaps could have slain, had I resisted his enchantments._

For a long moment, all three were silent. Voronwë sat down on a boulder, hiding his face in his hands. The armored man gaped at Túrin in undisguised horror; he seemed very… young, all of a sudden. Túrin gazed silently back at him, the wind roaring in his ears.

“You have to come with us,” the armored man said suddenly.

“What?” Túrin and Voronwë asked at the same time, both staring at him incredulously.

“We were given urgent news, but yours must be heard as well.”

“We can’t take him with us!” Voronwë exclaimed, his gray eyes fluttering wide open. “We’ll be lucky if you and I together can get through. He certainly would not!”

“I must return to Finduilas,” Túrin protested. “I gave her my word that I would return. Surely it is enough to carry what I told you to your destination; what difference does it make if I am there or not?”

“It makes a large difference!” The armored man yanked his helmet off of his head and looked earnestly at Túrin. “I—what… what is it?”

Túrin stared at him, his blood pounding in his veins. Before, with his helmet obscuring his face, the man had seemed familiar to Túrin. Of course, Túrin had assumed him to be of the House of Hador, but there had been something else, something Túrin couldn’t place. Now, with the man’s face unobscured, Túrin knew well what that ‘something’ was. “You… resemble someone I knew.”

The other man frowned slightly. “And who is that?”

“Huor, son of Galdor,” Túrin said woodenly. “My uncle.”

Once again, Túrin found himself the subject of staring, with the eyes of both Voronwë and the armored man (whose name Túrin now suspected he knew) riveted upon his face. “And who are you,” the latter said slowly, his tone uncertain, “to claim Huor as your uncle?”

Túrin drew himself up to his full height—he was no quite so tall as the other man, but he was close enough in height to meet his gaze easily. “I am Túrin, son of Húrin Lord of Dor-lómin, and of Morwen of the House of Bëor. I have two sisters to name, Urwen Lalaith and Niënor, one living and one dead. And yes, Huor was my uncle, of whom you are his very image. That is who I am.”

It all came out so fast. It had been many years since Túrin had openly claimed association with Húrin and Morwen, or with any of the rest of his family. He had been content to give aliases in place of his true name, both for his own safety and for the safety of those around him. But when he was so sure that he knew who stood before him, impulse led him to name himself truly. And should his kin not know him? Was he just to be a stranger to him?

The other man broke into a slightly shaky smile. “Then it certainly wasn’t chance that brought our paths together. I am Tuor, son of Huor and Rían.”

Somehow, even having guessed at it earlier, the truth was no less of a shock. “I had heard that you wandered the north of Beleriand,” Túrin said, his voice as tremulous as Tuor’s smile, “but I had not thought to find you. I—“ He broke off, his eyes widening as something occurred to him. “Rían! How does your mother fare?” Rían had vanished into the wilderness as soon as the news of the Nirnaeth had reached their town. Túrin remembered well his mother’s worry at Rían’s disappearance (And frankly, he’d been not a little disquieted by it himself). If he could relay news of Rían to Morwen…

But Tuor knit his brow, and Túrin knew his reply before he gave it. “Ah… my mother died, not long before I was born. I was fostered by the Mithrim Elves who sheltered her.

Túrin was reminded irresistibly of a day long past—Rían, trying to teach him and Lalaith how to sing. Lalaith had taken to it right away, and Rían had taught her many of her songs. Túrin, however, had had a poor singing voice at that age and had given up in frustration. But while Rían and Lalaith sang, Túrin would sit out of sight nearby them and listen, as their voices rose to the sky. Where was Rían’s voice now? Lost in the north wind, like Lalaith’s. Song was stilled in the north.

“I am grieved to hear that she has died,” Túrin murmured, looking away. Voronwë shifted his weight uncomfortably on the boulder on which he sat, seemingly echoing the sentiment. “She was a good woman.”

“So I have been told,” Tuor replied quietly. “She does not live in my memories, only in what others have told me of her. But perhaps you can tell me more about her on the road; for now, please, you must come with us.”

 _This again. Where is it that he’s going with such haste?_ “I must return to Finduilas,” Túrin repeated stubbornly. “I swore to her that I would, and I’ve no intention of breaking my word. And where exactly are you going, and what news are you bringing, that the fall of Nargothrond could make a difference in how your news is received?”

Voronwë spoke up first, albeit with visible reluctance. “Tuor has received news from Ulmo of the Hidden Kingdom’s demise. I am a mariner of King Turgon, whom Ulmo tasked with guiding Tuor to Turgon’s city, so that he may be warned of the danger.” He narrowed his eyes slightly. “I do not think you need to accompany us there.” When Tuor opened his mouth to protest, Voronwë added, his brow furrowed and his voice raised, “I cannot guarantee his safety, Tuor! I can hardly guarantee yours; I certainly can’t his! If we bring news of Nargothrond’s destruction to the king, it may be enough to sway him.”

“No,” Túrin said suddenly. “I’ll come with you.”

Tuor smiled, but the look Voronwë turned on him was troubled. “Intruders into Turgon’s domain are either set to spend the rest of their lives there, or are killed by the guards before they ever _see_ the city. For Men, even the Edain, it’s far more often the latter than the former. Unless we can convince Turgon of the danger to him and his people, you will never leave the city.”

“I understand that. I still want to come with you.”

Ulmo had sent messengers to Nargothrond warning of the city’s possible destruction. Túrin had dismissed them, and what was worse, he had persuaded Orodreth to dismiss their warnings as well. Túrin had never had any help from the distant Valar, only the malice of one who dwelled all too near. He had not been inclined to believe in any aid from the Valar, who had turned their backs on Men from the beginning. But less than a year after Túrin ignored Ulmo’s warnings, Glaurung bathed Tumhalad in fire and cooked the warriors of Nargothrond in their armored shells, and Túrin himself only narrowly saved Finduilas from a fate as one of Morgoth’s thralls. The predictions of Ulmo bore weight, after all.

And now, Ulmo had sent more messengers with similar tidings to another kingdom of the Elves. Who knew how near the Hidden Kingdom’s destruction was, if Turgon did not heed the warnings? If Túrin had even the slimmest chance of sparing them the fate that had befallen Nargothrond, he would take it. He wouldn’t let it happen, not again.

“And your lady?” Voronwë asked quietly. “What about her?”

Túrin squeezed his eyes tightly shut. “Finduilas… She is stronger than you think. And she is not alone. She will survive.”

If it took him a little longer to find his way back to her, so be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Taur-im-Duinath** —‘Forest between rivers’ (Sindarin); the wild, tangled forest that laid between the rivers Sirion and Gelion. This forest was vast, occupying nearly all the land that laid between the rivers Sirion and Gelion south of the Andram, and for unknown reasons, no one but a few Dark Elves (unknown whether this refers to the Avari, or all of the Úmanyar) ever lived there.  
>  **Ithil** —the Sindarin name for the Moon; of the Sun and the Moon, it is the elder of the two vessels, lit by Telperion’s last flower; in an early version of ‘Of the Sun and Moon and the Hiding of Valinor’ was said to be “the giver of visions” (The Lost Road 264). As this form is very similar to ‘Isil’, the Quenya form (which is likely to be its original form, as the vessel of the Moon was made in Aman), it is likely that ‘Ithil’ was adapted from ‘Isil’; all I can suppose is that the Valar got in contact with Melian at some point during the First Age to share information.  
>  **Ennor** —Middle-Earth (Sindarin)  
>  **Eithel Ivrin** —‘Ivrin’s Well’ (Sindarin); the source of the river Narog beneath the Ered Wethrin. Eithel Ivrin was a large pool set in a stone basin. Ivrin was known to the Elves of Beleriand (and possibly the Edain as well) as being a place of healing, and for the laughter of its falling waters. On his way to Nargothrond, Glaurung defiled Eithel Ivrin, breaking its basin so that the waters spread out across the land surrounding it.  
>  **Núath** —a wooded area in the north of Beleriand. The Ered Wethrin was to its west, and the Eithel Ivrin to its east.


	3. Chapter Three

Finduilas had sent word to Doriath requesting aid, so she had been expecting (hoping for) a party to come out of Menegroth with relief supplies. She wasn’t entirely sure _when_ they would come—the roads must have been well-nigh impassable with all this snow—but her hope was that aid would come before spring. Conversely, Finduilas had not expected to receive any aid from Círdan—knowing his conditions to only be somewhat better than hers, she had not asked.

She’d not expected to receive aid from both Doriath and the Isle of Balar. For both of them to show up at the same time seemed almost outside the realm of possibility. Stranger things had happened, though, and stranger things would likely continue occurring in the future.

“We met one another on the road here,” Emethril, the leader of the party out of Doriath, explained, as she and Finduilas went over the provisions, making certain that everything was accounted for. “We all thought it practical to travel together; safety in numbers, and all that.”

“You’ll hear no complaints from me,” Finduilas said fervently. ‘I’m just happy you’re all here.”

From Balar there had come four large barrels of salted fish, and sheets of canvas, the sort typically used as sails for the Falathrim’s ships, to be used as insulation for the houses (Though Finduilas suspected there wasn’t quite enough for all of them; at the very least, they could be cut up and used as blankets). The gift had come with a rather apologetic note from Círdan, saying that that was unfortunately all he could spare, but if he’d sent but one barrel of fish, or just the canvas, Finduilas would still have been grateful. It was still an odd feeling, being in the position of a supplicant, but Finduilas did not begrudge aid that was given out of a genuine desire to help.

Doriath, not being a refugee camp, or a precarious community built from one, could afford to send more. There was salted pork and venison, and various pickled fruits and vegetables, as well as five large earthenware jars of wine. Melian the Queen had sent a multitude of cloaks that she and her maidens had woven, in varying shades of green, yellow and blue, and furs that could be attached to the cloaks as Finduilas and her people pleased.

It would be much easier to make it through the winter with these supplies. Provided the snows abated when they were supposed to, or not too long afterwards, there would be no danger of anyone starving anymore. Finduilas drew her cloak closer about her as she and Emethril counted through the last of the supplies from Menegroth. “This seems to be everything. Emethril, may I ask you a question?”

Emethril’s eyebrows shot up. “Of course, your Highness.”

This might be the last opportunity she had to ask before the spring thaw; Finduilas had every intention of asking now. “I know that, in the past, Thingol sheltered an Adan child of the House of Hador in Menegroth.”

Emethril nodded. “Yes, your Highness. He cared for Túrin, Húrin’s son, and took him as a fosterling in his household.”

“That I know. I had wondered if there was anything you could tell me of two other members of Húrin’s family: Lady Morwen, and her daughter, Niënor.”

“Why, they have been living in Menegroth for over a year, now.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, your Highness. Thingol and Melian the Queen treat them as their guests and wards.”

“I see.” Then Túrin had gone chasing after ghosts after all—not ghosts of the dead, perhaps, but still ghosts. “When you leave in the morning, I have a letter to give to you, along with my report to Thingol. Please deliver it to Lady Morwen.”

“Of course. …If I may ask, what sort of letter is it that you have written for Lady Morwen?”

Finduilas smiled slightly. “I am giving her news that she and her daughter will hopefully be glad to hear.”

“Oh? That’s good. Lady Morwen is so withdrawn; she could use good news.”

It wasn’t all good news, though. The best Finduilas could give Morwen and Niënor was that Túrin had been alive and well at the beginning of autumn, and that she had not seen nor heard from him at all since then. He had gone chasing after them, and has disappeared into the frost and snow of the north. But whether Finduilas knew of Túrin’s whereabouts or not, whether he wanted it revealed or not, they deserved to know. They had gone without news of their kinsman for far too long.

Finduilas sighed deeply, and made her way over to the party from the Isle of Balar, the wind whipping her hair back and forth; she clutched at her cloak to keep it from fluttering open. “Are you all planning on leaving in the morning as well?”

The leader of the party nodded. “Yes, your Highness.” He paused for a moment, frowning as if trying to remember something, then said, “Well, not all of us.”

“Oh?” Finduilas asked, frowning. “Was someone injured on the way here?” She felt as though she would have noticed so, if that were the case, but she had been rather distracted with taking stock of the relief supplies.

He jerked his finger in the direction of a blue-cloaked Edhel emerging from the house designated as the storage place for the relief supplies. “Ask him yourself,” the leader said, with an odd note in his voice. “You should find his reasons interesting.”

Her frown deepening, Finduilas walked over to the Edhel. He was very tall, even for an adult, and strode confidently back towards the wagon. She could see no sign of injury from the way he walked. Was he one of her own people, one of the ones she had left on Balar? Had he decided he’d rather brave the water with his friends and his family than upon that storm-tossed island, however safe it might be from the Enemy’s attacks? Or was he one of Círdan’s people, and had he decided, for whatever reason, to trade one refugee camp for another?

 _I would be thankful for more help, but why would anyone wish to come here, especially during the midst of winter?_ “Excuse me.” The Edhel seemed not to have heard her over the wind, for he started to walk past her, and only stopped when Finduilas laid her hand upon his arm. “Wait a moment.”

He stilled. Under his cloak hood, Finduilas could see him frowning slightly. “What is it?”

Finduilas peered into his face. It was shadowed by the hood, of course, but Finduilas thought that there was something familiar about what little of it she could see. “I am told that you’re not leaving with the rest of your party.”

“…That’s true.”

“May I ask why? I’m hardly complaining—we’re always in need of help—but I’m not certain as to why someone would _want_ to live here if they didn’t have to, with the state of affairs as it is now.”

The Edhel laughed ruefully. “Aye, it does seem difficult to believe, doesn’t it? To answer your question, I suppose I was just curious.”

Finduilas narrowed her eyes. “And what was it you were curious about?”

“Why, you, of course!” The Edhel pulled his cloak hood away from his face, and Finduilas stared at him, her heart in her throat.

This was not an adult, as she had earlier assumed, but an adolescent boy, if a very tall one. He had brown hair pulled back in a single braid, a narrow, fair-skinned face, and bright brown eyes that gleamed as though they reflected Treelight, though Finduilas knew that to be impossible. She knew who this was. She had met him only a handful of times, and all when he was a small child, but she recognized his face.

“Gil-galad,” Finduilas said faintly, her stomach churning. “…Why are you here?”

“I wanted to see you,” he said simply, quietly. “Why shouldn’t a brother want to see his sister?”

Why, indeed? “Come inside,” Finduilas told him tersely, starting for the main house, not daring to meet his gaze. “There’s a place where we can talk privately.”

Finduilas led her brother through the pushing crowds inside the main house, her heart constricting as though clutched by a cruel, icy hand. She was dimly aware of some of the Edhil on each side of her path trying to speak with her, but she ignored them, not at all certain of her ability to say anything pleasant (Or anything at all).

When Finduilas finally reached the thin partition, she leaned up against the wall of the house, trying to collect her thoughts. There were so many things to say that she hardly knew what to say first. Finally, she settled on, “…Do you already know?”

“About Father?” Gil-galad inferred. “Yes,” he said softly, his face tightening, before relaxing in quiet, distant grief. “I have, Finduilas.”

She nodded choppily. “I see. …Good.” If he was here, then surely he must have known, but for one horrible moment, Finduilas thought that somehow, Gil-galad had learned of Nargothrond’s fall without also learning that their father was dead, and that she would have to tell him herself. At least she had been spared that.

 _But who was it who_ did _tell him_? Finduilas wondered with a pang. _Círdan? One of the Edhil I left on Balar? Perhaps it should have been me, after all. Why force a stranger to give such awful—_ She drove those thoughts from her mind; they wouldn’t help her (The seed of them remained in the back of her mind, a little nagging whisper, but she could ignore it, mostly). “You should not be here,” Finduilas said flatly. “You should never have ventured so far from Balar in the dead of winter; don’t you think the Orcs would think a Noldorin prince a handsome prize to take back to their master?”

“Círdan sent me,” Gil-galad protested, folding his arms across his chest.

“You’ll forgive me if I am a little skeptical of that.” Finduilas could see Círdan allowing Gil-galad to make the journey, especially if he thought Gil-galad old enough (Or if Gil-galad had importuned him enough). It seemed far less likely that he would choose a still-growing boy to be his emissary, even if the one with whom he was to speak was his sister.

“Not as a representative,” Gil-galad clarified, apparently sensing her thoughts. “He wanted me to give you some news, and gave me leave to stay, if you would allow it.”

Finduilas frowned. “What news is that?” For a moment, she wondered if Glaurung had been sighted leaving his new lair, but put the thought from her mind. If that was the case, she doubted that either the parties from Balar or Doriath would have so casually off-loaded their supplies. _Some good news would be appreciated—perhaps the dragon chocked on one of the statues in the treasury, and we can all go home_. Likely, even the best news wouldn’t be _that_ good, but it was worth imagining.

Gil-galad smiled slightly as he explained, “Come the spring, Círdan is going to send some of his craftsmen here, if you will allow it. He thought you probably hadn’t had time to get much built before it started snowing. Once spring comes, with the extra help, you should have better shelters built in no time,” he said blithely.

“I wonder what the people who _built_ these shelters would think of your comparison,” Finduilas said dryly.

Gil-galad’s face colored slightly. “I meant no disrespect.”

“I know you didn’t, Brother. I spoke only in jest. But still…” Finduilas gazed searchingly at his face. “Why on earth would you want to stay _here_? We rely entirely on secrecy for safety, and you know well how little we have in the way of provisions.”

She could not begin to guess at his motives; Finduilas didn’t know Gil-Galad well enough for that. It seemed impossible to her that anyone would really _want_ to live in such a wretched place, with virtually no privacy and scant resources. If you lived here, you were hungry; Finduilas and her lords were no exception (She’d made sure of that). Even Finduilas did not particularly wish to be here, not like _this_. She accepted constant hunger and the increasingly shabby state of her clothes as a necessity, but her blood curdled with shame at the thought of how she would compare to the royalty of Doriath or Gondolin. She would be grateful when spring melted the winter snows, and the building of more permanent shelters could commence.

Gil-galad shrugged, though that nonchalant gesture was belied by the faint, uncertain gleam in his eyes. “It’s as I said. I wanted to see you. I… don’t really see that I _need_ more of a reason than that.”

Finduilas bit back a sigh. After Finrod had died, their father had attempted to send her away to Círdan’s lands, to be with her brother, who was then a very small child, Orodreth’s reasoning being that with Finduilas and Gil-galad’s mother dead, the latter needed one of his family members nearby. Finduilas had refused—Nargothrond was her home, always had been, and she would not be driven away from it, no matter the danger. Orodreth had eventually relented. Ostensibly, he claimed that since she was an adult, he could not force her to dwell in one place or another if she did not wish it. However, Finduilas suspected that, with his son gone from his side, his sister dwelling in Menegroth, and his wife and his brothers all dead, Orodreth had had other reasons to let his daughter stay by his side.

“…Alright. You can stay here, if you wish.” Finduilas turned a sharp gaze on her brother. “But I warn you, it will be a lean winter.”

“Since the Nirnaeth, all of my winters have been lean,” Gil-galad told her gamely. He smiled warmly. “Thank you, Finduilas.”

Finduilas nodded, and said nothing. It was not the decision a queen would have made, but then, maybe that was why she had made it in the first place.

-0-0-0-

Since they had come to live in Menegroth, she and her mother, Niënor had known Doriath as a more peaceful place to live than Dor-lómin had ever been. It was not always a _quiet_ place to live, maybe; on feast days and festivals, the Thousand Caves were lost in an incredible din, and Morwen, no great lover of loud noises or crowds, withdrew to be the innermost of their chambers, and shut the doors. Herself, Niënor did not mind the noise overmuch. If it grew too overwhelming, she went outside, where a few of the wardens stationed near Menegroth would be happy to keep her company. And what was noise, anyways, if it rose in a place where the air was free of the foul stench of fear?

Lately, though, Niënor wondered if fear hadn’t followed her south from home.

Nargothrond had been laid waste by Glaurung and his Orcs. The king was dead; most of his warriors were dead. Finduilas, the king’s daughter, had taken what remained of her people and fled to the empty Taur-im-Duinath. One of the last great kingdoms of Beleriand, formerly so well-hidden, had fallen.

Niënor could hardly deny being surprised by the where weight of the pall of fear that had descended over Menegroth with the news. Did the Elves of Doriath lead lives so sheltered from the realities of the outside world that the specter of attack could be as shocking as it was? To Niënor, it seemed more like destruction was something any kingdom still standing had to think about every hour of the day. It should be something prepared for in case the worst really did come to pass. Niënor respected Melian, and the strength of her enchantments, but she wasn’t sure that it was wise to rely on them alone.

But hers was one voice only, and the few Niënor had expressed her opinion to reacted as though preparing for the worst was the most unnatural thing in the world. For their sakes, Niënor hoped that Melian’s enchantments held strong for as long as Morgoth ruled in the north. Herself, Niënor wanted other assurances.

However, there was more news from Nargothrond than that of its fall, and amongst that, there was something to throw Niënor.

In Nargothrond’s final years, Orodreth had counted a Man of the Edain as one of his most trusted captains. He had been known by many names—Agarwaen, Mormegil, Adanedhel, just to name a few—but ere the end, there were many who had known him by his right name: Túrin, son of Húrin, the Lord of Dor-lómin. Her brother.

He had been nearby in Nargothrond the whole time, and Niënor had never known. A brother she had never met, maybe, but still her brother. Niënor still frowned to think that she had been denied the right to know him during that time, for whatever reason. And now, it might be that she would never know him.

Accounts of what had become of Túrin following the fall of Nargothrond differed. There were stories that he had been slain in the final defense of the city, and others who said that Glaurung had put him under a spell, and that he lingered in Nargothrond still, as unmoving as stone. Finally, someone who had escaped the destruction with Finduilas reported that Túrin had escaped with his life, but had broken from the evacuation party, and was last seen heading north—to where, they did not know.

The conflicting accounts had been enough to send Morwen into a panic. She had been determined to go out into the wilderness seeking her son until, at last, Niënor, Lady Galadriel, and even Queen Melian herself had between the three of them persuaded Morwen to remain in Menegroth. Unfortunately, Morwen had only agreed to be stayed for as long as Túrin’s whereabouts remained unknown. When that was no longer an issue…

 _How am I to keep her here?_ Niënor wondered worriedly to herself, as she made her way back to the chambers she shared with her mother. It had always been incredibly difficult to sway Morwen from a course of action, once she was resolved to it. They’d only narrowly kept her from leaving when news of Túrin first came to her. How would they (or Niënor by herself, as she suspected it would be) keep her from leaving when she finally found out where her son was? Niënor gnawed at her lip as she thought of her mother going out into the wilds. _The snow drifts are up to our necks and the countryside’s crawling with Orcs, but she’d still do it if anyone gave her any clue of where Túrin’s gone._

Niënor shifted the bundle in her arms. Morwen had skipped supper, preferring to sit in silence in her chamber, so Niënor had made a detour to the kitchens on her way back from the feasting hall. If she wasn’t hungry now, she likely would be ere morning, and while brown bread and cheese were far from the riches of foods to be found in Menegroth, Niënor had never seen Morwen turn her nose up at them.

 _Hopefully, by the time we find out anything new, she’ll have calmed down and actually_ thought _about what a horrible idea heading out on her own is._

 _Maybe it’ll turn out Túrin will come here, and she won’t feel like she has to go looking for him at all._ But somehow, Niënor suspected she wouldn’t be that lucky.

Niënor found herself distracted from that train of thought when she turned a bend in one of the great corridors and caught sight of someone she had not thought to see. “Emethril!” she called out joyfully, her voice mingling with the whispers and resounding at the ceiling.

Emethril, slim and dark, clad still in a weather-stained gray cloak, jumped and turned on her heel (She wasn’t the only one; more than one Elf in the corridor turned and glared reproachfully at Niënor). When her dark eyes met Niënor’s blue ones, she grinned and strode over to her. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“Nor I you. I thought you weren’t due back from the Taur-im-Duinath for another week.”

Emethril smirked. “We made better time than I thought we would.” The smirk faded from her mouth as she asked, quietly, “How is Lady Morwen?”

Niënor shrugged, grimacing. “A bit better. She wouldn’t come down for supper tonight—“ Niënor shifted the cloth-wrapped bundle in her arms for emphasis “—but she’s been doing that less often lately. Thankfully.”

“That’s something.” Emethril laid her hand on Niënor’s arm. “And you?”

“I’m well,” Niënor commented with a lopsided smile. “Sick of the snow.”

Emethril laughed under her breath. “Well, unfortunately for you, I don’t think it’s going anywhere.”

They started in the direction of Morwen and Niënor’s chambers, walking slowly in step with one another. “How are things in the Taur-im-Duinath?” Niënor asked curiously. As far as she knew, none of the Elves of Nargothrond who survived the city’s sack had had enough time to take much in the way of provisions with them. She had been wondering how they were faring, in that case.

“Better than I thought they would be.” Emethril’s face tightened noticeably. “They must have started building as soon as they got there, for they do at least have shelter enough for everyone. It’s cramped quarters, though, and even with what we brought them, they’ll be short on food before too long.”

Niënor grimaced. That didn’t sound all that different from winters in Dor-lómin, with Brodda taking the lion’s share of winter provisions for himself and his lapdogs, and she and her mother left only with what Aunt Aerin could sneak to them. Hopefully Finduilas practiced a more equitable distribution of food than Brodda—though Niënor didn’t see how that would be difficult.

“Ah… Niënor.” Emethril pulled a small package, wrapped in brown cloth and bound with string, from the folds of her cloak. “I can’t stay; I must deliver Finduilas’s report to Thingol. But there was something she—Finduilas, I mean—wished for me to give to your mother. Will you give this to her?”

With her free hand, Niënor took the package from Emethril. It felt very light; Niënor could only tell by pressing her fingers against the rough cloth that there was anything in the package at all. “A letter?” Niënor asked, perplexed.

“That’s what she told me. If you’ll excuse me.”

Alone, Niënor frowned as she walked back to her and her mother’s chambers, puzzling over the possible contents of the letter. What would a Noldorin princess—queen, Niënor corrected herself—want with the two of them? Oh, certainly, Niënor’s father had been a lord among the Edain, but she’d gotten the impression that many of the Noldor considered even the lords of the Edain to be beneath their notice, beneath their care. What would a daughter of the House of Finwë want with two dispossessed ladies of the House of Hador?

She would find out soon enough. When Niënor returned home, she went to the door of the room where her mother dwelled and rapped her knuckles on the door. “Mother, are you there?”

For a long moment, there was silence. Niënor pressed the palm of her hand against the door, frowning slightly. She couldn’t imagine that Morwen had gone out; she certainly hadn’t been in the mood to do so. _Is she just refusing to answer?_ But then, there came a terse reply. “I’m here. What is it?”

Niënor pressed the door open, and found her mother sitting on the edge of her bed, the only source of light the lamp hanging on the hook by the bed. Morwen looked… well, not actively unhappy, Niënor supposed. That was something. “Firstly, I brought you some food from the kitchens, in case you get hungry.”

“You should not trouble yourself,” Morwen said shortly. “If I hunger, I will find my own food.” Niënor set the bundle of bread and cheese down on the table by the door, nonetheless. “And what else?”

Her mouth twitching bemusedly, Niënor held the small package out to her mother. “A letter.”

Morwen looked at the package and frowned. “From whom?”

“Emethril says it’s from Finduilas of Nargothrond.”

Silently, Morwen took the proffered package and undid the knot on the string binding the cloth. The parchment inside was folded into quarters, and bent around the edges, probably from being constrained by the cloth. Morwen read the letter over. As she did so, Niënor couldn’t help but notice how her already pale face grew waxen and drawn.

Finally, Morwen set the letter down on the bed beside her, saying nothing. She did not meet her daughter’s gaze, did not even acknowledge her presence in the room. “What’s wrong?” Niënor asked, concerned.

No reply, just silence. Her brow furrowed, Niënor picked up the discarded letter and began to read it. As she did so, her eyebrows rose.

 _‘Greetings to Morwen, Lady of Dor-lómin,’_ the letter read in long, slanted handwriting. _‘I hope that this letter finds you and your daughter well. I am writing to convey news to you regarding your son, whom I count as a dear friend._

_‘Your son, Túrin of Dor-lómin, served my father as a captain and a councilor these past five years. He is a good person—hardy in battle, bold, stern perhaps, but kind to those in need, and kind to me. He has served well both my father and myself._

_‘After the last battle on the plain of Tumhalad, Túrin returned to Nargothrond, in the hopes of driving out the invaders before they could complete their sack of the city. There, he encountered Glaurung, Father of Dragons, Morgoth’s lieutenant. They exchanged words—what exactly it was that passed between them, I cannot say—but the result of their conversation was that Túrin made for Dor-lómin, alone, under the belief that you and your daughter suffered indignity under the yoke of Morgoth’s servants. I tried to convince him not to undertake such a journey, but was unable to succeed. Please forgive me._

_‘I have had no word from Túrin since then; however, considering that he would have no means of sending word to me, I do not consider this cause for alarm in and of itself. Túrin gave his word to return to me once his errand was completed, and I have never known him to break his word. I trust that he will return, in time._

_‘I would invite you and Lady Niënor to await his return with me, but regrettably we are in no condition to welcome guests at this time. Even if we were, the current weather would make your journey more dangerous than I could bear. When Túrin returns, I will send word of his return to you._

_‘Respectfully,_

_‘Finduilas, daughter of Orodreth and Meresír, of the House of Arfin, Queen-in-exile of Nargothrond.’_

When the words ran out, Niënor stared down at the piece of parchment, crinkling the edges in her hands. Maybe she should have expected this. As daughter of King Orodreth, Finduilas would have likely known of her father’s captains and councilors. However, Niënor had not expected Finduilas to know Túrin personally.

She turned her attention to her mother. Though Niënor suspected she already knew the answer, she asked, “What will you do?”

Morwen sprang from her bed, casting about until she grabbed the brown cloak she had taken with her from Dor-lómin. It was an ill match to the right blue-and-purple dress she wore, but still she tossed it over one shoulder. “I will return to Dor-lómin,” Morwen said firmly. “I must find him, and this time, not Thingol nor Melian herself will gainsay me.”

Niënor grimaced. _I was afraid of that._ She took a step towards Morwen. “Mother, you can’t go.”

“Oh, I can’t, can I?” Morwen challenged, raising an eyebrow. “And pray, why is that?”

“Well, for one thing, the snow drifts are up to our necks.” Morwen frowned reprovingly, and Niënor added, abashed, “Perhaps they are not _that_ high. But you know as well as I do that the roads are impassable right now.”

“Then I will not travel upon the roads.” Morwen took a satchel from the chest at the foot of her bed and tossed it on top of the duvet. “We did not take them when we came here; I’ve no doubt I could find my way back home without their aid.”

Scowling, Niënor took another step towards her mother. “And suppose you _do_ make it all the way to Dor-lómin. What then? You think the Easterlings didn’t notice that we left? There aren’t too many places we could have gone but to the Elves, and all your clothes are the clothes of an Elven lady. Brodda already called you ‘witch’ before; what do you think he’d do to you if you went back, as you are now?”

Morwen was not an impractical woman; Niënor had hoped that reminding her of the danger she’d be putting herself in (very _real_ danger) would be enough to dissuade her. But it would seem not. Morwen turned her piercing stare on her daughter. “Niënor,” she said very deliberately, though Niënor could discern a faint tremor in her voice. “I have gone years without news of your brother. If I have even a slight chance of finding him, I will take it. You must understand that.”

Niënor’s shoulders sagged.

Though she was now somewhat taller than her mother, Morwen had always seemed so big to her. She was the woman who could scare off insolent men with a simple glare; if she could do that, surely she could do anything. As the years dragged on, Niënor realized that that wasn’t quite right. Her mother couldn’t get them enough food to last through the winter; Aunt Aerin and Sador had to do that. She couldn’t protect her from ambitious men looking to wed the last Lord of Dor-lómin’s daughter; again, Aunt Aerin had to do that, and Niënor had spent most of her last few years in Dor-lómin indoors, away from the casements. She couldn’t defend the women and children of the House of Hador from their cruel husbands. She couldn’t bring Niënor’s father home, nor her brother.

Despite that, Morwen had still seemed so big to her daughter, someone larger than life, with a greater spirit than that of a daughter of Men. There had been days when Niënor half-expected her mother to prove herself the witch the Easterlings claimed her to be and use her magic to drive all her enemies from Dor-lómin. But now, she seemed much… smaller. It was as though all the layers and shells Morwen put up around herself had been stripped away, until only the woman behind them remained.

“Your hardly ever talked about Túrin,’ Niënor said softly, her hands clenched in fists. “Do you remember? It was Sador who first told me of him; before that, I didn’t even know I had a brother.” Niënor counted all the days her mother had sat silent in lightless rooms, until the number stretched out of reach. “…Is this how you’ve always felt?”

Morwen paused, her hand braced on the bedframe. “…There are things of which it gives me pain to speak,” she said at length, turning her head so that her face was hidden from Niënor’s sight. “I could not relate them, not even to you, my daughter.” Her face still turned away, she murmured, “Forgive me.”

Remorse, perhaps, but no sign of wavering. Her shoulders still feeling a bit heavy, Niënor straightened and said, “Then I am coming with you.”

“What?” Morwen whipped around, her eyes wide. “You certainly will _not_ be coming with me.”

 _So you would ride off into danger, unheeding the advice of everyone who cares for you, and then forbid me from doing the same?_ Niënor put her hands on her hips and frowned deeply. “Where you go, Mother, I will go too. I won’t let you just wander off without a traveling companion.”

“I can manage on my own.”

“You don’t know how to hunt. How will you find food?”

“I’ll gather provisions before I leave.”

“Enough to last you all the way to Dor-lómin? You’d need a pack mule for that, on top of a riding horse.”

“Then I will take a pack mule in addition to a horse,” Morwen snapped, her brow furrowing and the lines around her mouth digging deeper. “But you most certainly will _not_ be accompanying me; you will remain here, in Melian’s care.” She looked her daughter up and down, frowning darkly. “Why do you press me, Niënor?”

Niënor’s blood roared in her ears. _You can ask that?_ “Because you…” She drew a deep breath, her nostrils flaring. “You named me ‘Mourning,’” Niënor said unevenly, a sudden knot forming in her throat, “to mourn for everything we lost. Am I supposed to be houseless and kinless, mourning for father, brother, and mother, too? I…” She blinked, appalled to find her eyes damp. “… I will not be separated from all of you, and especially not from you.” Old memory of nights asleep in bed with her mother, only her mother, stung like a thorn piercing her heart. “So if you leave, I will leave with you. No one will gainsay me. Not Thingol, not Melian, and especially not you. I might go into danger, but I will _not_ be left alone,” Niënor said thickly.

Morwen stared at her, her eyes bright with indecision. The air between them was thick and close, as though the words passed between them lingered still. Niënor wondered if, in spite of all she had said, Morwen would still set out from Menegroth. If that were the case, Niënor would follow her, either openly or in secret, if Morwen attempted to forbid it. But the idea that all of her pleading could not avail her left her feeling… weak.

“Is this how you’ve always felt?” Morwen asked quietly, her face unreadable.

“Yes,” Niënor said simply. There was nothing else to say.

Morwen nodded, and sat stiffly back down on the edge of the bed. “Then I will stay,” she told her. Her voice was decidedly brittle. “I will stay until the end of winter. But if spring arrives and I have still received no word, I will set out from this place. Then, you may accompany me if you wish.”

Niënor nodded, and backed out of the room. Out from under her mother’s gaze, she leaned against the wall and drew a deep breath. Her reprieve would last her until the start of spring. _And what_ , she wondered heavily, _will come with the melting of the snow?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Falathrim** —‘People of the foaming shore’ (Sindarin) or ‘Coast people’ (Sindarin); the Sindar of the Havens of the Falas in Beleriand; Círdan’s people.


	4. Chapter Four

Túrin had caught his first glimpse of the city after passing through the last of seven gates—the gates themselves had each been a marvel, but the sight that greeted him when he came to the sward overlooking the valley stopped his breath in his throat.

The city stood on a solitary hill in the snow-covered valley, as an island in a sea of foam. Its walls and many towers gleamed white in the weak winter sun, and even from so far away, Túrin thought he heard the wound of water laughing in great fountains, their music carried to him by a more kindly wind than anything he had expected this past when up until now. He’d seen nothing like it in all his years. Menegroth and Nargothrond were grand, certainly, but this city held with it a different sort of grandeur, as though its builders had endeavored to reach the roof of the sky. They weren’t trying to hide themselves beneath the eaves of a cave.

“You seem surprised, son of Húrin,” Ecthelion, their escort, remarked beside them, as they road across the vale towards the city. “Surely a captain of Nargothrond is used to such things.”

Nargothrond blackened with soot rose to mind, and Túrin turned his gaze sharply away from the city, a retort building on his lips. But when he turned his gaze on Ecthelion, the Elf-lord was smiling wryly at him, his gray eyes shining with what almost looked like sadness. _It was no accusation_ , he told himself. Maybe it was the strange Sindarin he spoke, peppered with Quenya—he’d picked up some Quenya from his time in Nargothrond, but he’d never heard it spoken so openly before. “I… am surprised that so fair a city can thrive so close to the Enemy’s lands,” he explained. It wasn’t a lie, certainly, but there was something else…

Tuor had ridden out far ahead of the group, but he turned back and laughed brightly, his cheeks flushed. “It’s beautiful!” he called out. “What is the city called?”

Ecthelion’s mouth twitched as he replied, “Our fair city has many times. ‘Tis said and ‘tis sung: “Gondobar am I called and Gondothlimbar, City of Stone and City of the Dwellers in Stone; Gondolin the Stone of Song and Gwarestrin am I named, the Tower of Guard. Gar Thurion or the Secret Place, for I am hidden from the eyes of Morgoth; but they who love me most greatly call me Loth, for like a flower am I, even Lothengriol the flower that blooms on the plain.’”

Túrin couldn’t help but smile, if as wryly as Ecthelion had smiled at him. “Many names, indeed. _Too_ many, almost.”

Ecthelion laughed under his breath. “I know some who would agree with you.”

“And what is your city called in common talk?”

“We call it ‘Gondolin,’” Voronwë spoke up from his place at the back of the group. When Túrin turned in his saddle to gaze at him, he saw the Elf smiling surprisingly wistfully at Tuor. “Or ‘Ondolindë,’ if you speak in Quenya rather than in Sindarin.”

Gondolin…

The matter of his father and uncle’s ‘missing year’ had been one that was still discussed even in Túrin’s childhood, though, he was to understand, not nearly with the fervor of years past. Húrin and Huor had been separated from a war party and disappeared, only to turn up a year later, arrayed as princes and refusing to tell anyone where they had been. Well, by Tuor, their fathers had stayed out their missing year here, as guests of King Turgon.

Túrin tried to imagine that his father had been here when he was young, that he had walked the path his son rode down even now, that he had walked the streets Túrin would soon walk. It seemed impossible, but all whom he had encountered agreed: Húrin had dwelled here, once. When Túrin thought of it, his heart went oddly still.

They made their way across the snow-covered vale. The mountains loomed white and blue-gray in the distance, casting long shadows over the vale. Occasionally, they passed by the smooth, silver-gray trunks of trees that dwarfed even the largest trees of Region in size. There were little pools here and there, all of them frozen over, their surfaces like polished mirrors in the brightness and clarity of their reflection.

Tuor had never ridden a horse before, and it showed. The garrison at the last gate had given him what they claimed was the calmest, most staid mare in their stables, but still she shot ahead at times (though Tuor’s practically palpable enthusiasm and restlessness could not have helped) and hung back at others. There were moments when Tuor nearly fell out of the saddle, though thankfully he never did. This hardly seemed to faze him. Tuor always carried on undaunted, and brushed off Voronwë’s concern with a comment that he’d survived enough hard blows to the head that one more wouldn’t kill him. Túrin rather envied his confidence.

It was a strange thing still, to have such close kin in his company. Túrin had been a child when last he saw either of his parents, and had never met Niënor at all. And here was his cousin, of whom he himself was the first of his close kin _Tuor_ had ever met. What might have become of them if Elves and Edain had prevailed in the fifth battle, and Rían had not fled Dor-lómin? He and Tuor were too far apart in age to have been playmates, though given that Tuor could not have been more than a few months Niënor’s senior, Túrin suspected that the two of them might have been thick as thieves. Maybe he would have taught Tuor swordplay as the latter grew older, or at least helped him with his training. Both would have had their family with them, (almost) whole.

But that could never be. The past was unsalvageable, just as it always was. Túrin supposed he would just have to try to make what he could out of the present.

He watched as Tuor rode on in front of them. He’d made some progress with his mare; the horse wasn’t quite as inclined to disregard his commands as before. They’d never had any opportunity to speak of Rían on the road here, nor of anything else, really. But the evacuation of a city as large as this one, when not provoked by attack, would be a massive undertaking, and likely wouldn’t be able to start until spring. Maybe they would find the time between now and then.

The journey to the foot of the city must have taken several hours, for the sun was already beginning to sink when they reached the gates, but Túrin found drinking in his surroundings and occasionally fielding questions from Ecthelion to be more than sufficient distraction. He was actually a little surprised when Ecthelion called for them to dismount.

The streets of Gondolin, winding ever upwards, were paved with white flagstones kept free of snow. The houses and shops, both great and small, were made of the same white stone, and their westward sides glistened red in the light of the setting sun. They passed by some of the great towers Túrin had seen from afar, where silent guards stood by their doors, holding their spears high.

Despite the cold and the hour of the day, the streets were far from empty. Everywhere he looked, Túrin saw mostly dark-haired (though he spotted a few fair heads as well) Elves decked out in their winter clothes, strolling up the high streets in groups, lingering at food stalls whose myriad enticing aromas awoke hunger in Túrin for the first time since before he’d set off across the vale. Still more chattered by barren flowerbeds or sat on the lips of the fountains that foamed merrily in spite of the season.

As they climbed higher and higher, Tuor and Túrin attracted more than a few stares. The Elves of Gondolin looked on Túrin with curiosity, but when their eyes lit on Tuor and his armor, his helmet and shield, curiosity turned to wonder. Tuor seemed not to notice their scrutiny, just like he didn’t notice the cold or the wind. He made his way up the streets towards the palace as though the streets were already familiar to him. Himself, Túrin met squarely the gazes of those Elves who stared at them, and couldn’t help the sensation of satisfaction when some of them looked away. He knew that after months in the wilderness, he more closely resembled a vagabond than a lord out of a southern kingdom. The wind constantly whipping his loose hair back and forth could not have helped. But hopefully, his words would not be discounted on account of his appearance.

 _Certainly, Tuor is impressive enough_ , Túrin thought dryly. _Hopefully, I would be impressive enough on my own that I don’t need to rely on him to be impressive enough for both of us._

At last, they reached the palace, and again, Túrin found himself standing stock-still in amazement, his mouth open.

Before the palace, there stood two trees, their long branches intertwined with one another. They were not made of wood and fiber and water, but one of silver and one of gold. Glass lanterns dangled from strategically-placed hooks on the branches, swaying gently in the wind, and the metal glittered in their light. This was impressive enough, but the palace itself…

In both Menegroth and Nargothrond, the city essentially _was_ the palace, housing thousands, both those of the king’s household and those not connected with the king’s household at all. In both cities, the king’s living quarters were located behind the throne room. But this one building, this massive building that towered over all others in Gondolin was itself dedicated to the housing of the king, his family, their households, and to the offices of his officials. And the building was grand to look upon, tall and proud with many towers, great doors of oak in which were carved the images of cornflowers, windows set with transparent and with colored glass. _So this is the dwelling-place of the High King of the Noldor. This is the house of the north’s last hope, lest Thingol is persuaded to go to war_.

Tuor, Túrin and Voronwë were all ushered through those great oak doors, and into an antechamber outside the throne room, while Ecthelion slipped inside. Túrin counted himself grateful to have shelter from the wind (and some from the cold as well), and peered around the room. A large group of what Túrin supposed were nobles, household servants, officials or some combination of the three (their clothes were all roughly equivalent in terms of richness, but the way they were cut was unfamiliar to Túrin, so he could not say for sure what each wearer’s rank was) stared and whispered, wide-eyed.

This was all starting to feel remarkably familiar. Túrin half-expected to see Finduilas slip out from behind the antechamber door (though the throne room in Nargothrond hadn’t had an antechamber), or for a white-faced Guilin to detach himself from the crowd and pull a shaking Gwindor into his embrace. Gwindor… Túrin shut his eyes. Gwindor should have been here with him, or, if not, at least alive, and safe.

Despite knowing she would never have left her people behind, Túrin rather wished Finduilas were here as well. She would appreciate the splendor of these halls, and might appreciate being able to meet her kinfolk as well. If all went well, though, she would likely meet them soon enough.

At length, Ecthelion re-emerged into the antechamber, and beckoned to the three of them. “King Turgon will see you now. Come and present yourselves.”

The throne room was a vast, high-roofed chamber, the floor inlaid with polished blue tiles, the walls on each side of the door host to a series of tall windows set with colored glass in shades of blue, green, white and yellow. The glass in the windows formed images that cast their shadows across the floor and the inhabitants of the chamber. There were white ships upon a blue sea, whose prows were swans’ heads. There was a snow-capped mountain and a city upon a green hill, like Gondolin and yet now. One of the images was of the Moon and the Sun in the sky together, crowned with stars. The two windows closest to the throne seemed to be matched with one another. One the right hand side of the throne, there was a silver tree in flower; on the left hand side, a golden tree bearing fruit of like color.

The crowd was a mixed assemblage of Noldorin and Sindarin Elves (And only some of the former could Túrin pick out on account of the brightness of their eyes). Again, Túrin could not guess at their functions here, though at least some, he supposed, had to be courtiers. Ecthelion took his place by a fair-haired Elf somewhat taller than himself, who leaned over and whispered something in Ecthelion’s ear, keeping his eyes trained on Tuor the whole time.

The Elves gathered in the throne room parted for Tuor (Túrin suspected, somewhat irritably, that he and Voronwë were an afterthought—they had eyes only for Tuor) to pass by, and his two companions followed close behind. Eventually, they made their way to the throne.

Even if he did not sit in his great throne, Túrin knew he would have been able to pick Turgon out from the rest. Seated he might have been, but Túrin could still see that he was taller than everyone else in the room, taller even than he and Tuor, when they towered over many of the Elves. The Noldorin king might have been a match for Thingol, in that regard. He was clad in robes of rich blue, belted with silver. Curiously (or so Túrin thought), he went bareheaded, and his dark hair was cut short just above his shoulders. Turgon looked on both Tuor and Túrin with the same even gaze, though his eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch after catching sight of Tuor’s armor.

To the king’s right, there stood a tall, pale Elf, a long sword buckled to his belt, his arms folded across his chest. He watched them sharply out of piercing dark eyes, his lips quirked in a slight frown. To the king’s left, a lady sat in a cushioned chair, pale-haired and wearing a dress a paler shade of blue than the king’s. The look in her eyes as she gazed upon Tuor was one of undisguised curiosity. Turgon had no wife; Túrin knew that much. These two were likely his heirs, or favored courtiers, if not.

Turgon smiled slightly at the three of them, before saying. “Welcome, Men of the House of Hador, and welcome home, Voronwë. I have long awaited the arrival of the one who bears the armor of Nevrast.”

Tuor stepped forward and bowed low before Turgon. Then he rose, and said in a clear, ringing voice, “Hail, King of Gondolin. I, Tuor, son of Huor, have come bearing an urgent message.” Túrin stared at his cousin, amazed at the sudden change that came over him. No longer did he seem the rough (if visionary) vagabond of the northern wilderness, an outlaw for several years. He seemed to speak with another’s voice, a voice of great wisdom and power, impossibly old. “The Lord of Waters, he who makes music in the deep abyss, sends you his greetings, and bid that I give you this news.

“Long has your city prospered in the north of the world, and it had grown fair and mighty among the kingdoms of the Eldar. But even now, the Curse of Mandos rushes to its fulfillment; all the works of the Exiles shall perish, and Gondolin will not be spared. Even now, Morgoth casts his eyes about the north, and sends forth his spies, seeking the Hidden City. Indeed, he will discover it ere he is cast out of his own domains.” Tuor’s brow furrowed, scanning Turgon’s face with what might have been uncertainty. “The Lord of Waters bids that you leave this place, and travel down the Sirion to the Sea, before Morgoth finds you here.”

Turgon leaned back slightly in his throne, but the Elf on his right took a step forwards, frowning deeply at Tuor. “This city has been hidden for many years. What is it that’s changed?” Though he spoke the same amalgamation of Sindarin and Quenya as the other Elves here, Túrin thought he did so with somewhat less ease than the others. That was a secondary concern, though, in the face of the fact that he was the one offering opposition.

“The possibilities of Gondolin’s location grow slimmer,” Tuor replied confidently, as though he had been told to expect opposition, and what sort of opposition to expect, “and Morgoth’s enemies grow fewer. Ever does his mind turn more towards the destruction of Gondolin.”

Whispers rose to the ceiling, but the Elf’s frown only grew deeper still. “We have been a target for the Enemy’s malice for many years. And yet, the city stands.”

His blood hot, Túrin came to stand at Tuor’s side. He bowed before the king and added his own voice to the discussion. “My Lord, I must speak. You have fewer rivals for Morgoth’s attention than you think.”

The lady at Turgon’s left stiffened in her chair and Turgon, reacting similarly, told him, “Go on.”

Túrin drew a deep breath. “Early this autumn, a great host left Angband, led by Glaurung the Father of Dragons. You may have noticed some sign of their advance.”

Turgon nodded, his face tightening. “We did. We knew not where they were bound.”

 _What scouts are stationed outside the Echoriath must not venture very far._ “They were bound for Nargothrond.”

“What?” Turgon gaped at him, stricken. “Is this true?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Túrin replied reluctantly. “It’s true. A force led by King Orodreth confronted them at the plain of Tumhalad, but nearly all were slain, including King Orodreth himself.” _And many who fell not then lost their lives afterwards_. Ignoring the mounting whispers behind him, Túrin went on, “Princess Finduilas escaped with a small number of her people, but the greater number of them were slain. Nargothrond itself was overrun—‘tis all too likely that it is Glaurung and his Orcs who have the run of the city now.”

Túrin prayed that this would be enough to sway him. Húrin, who had venerated Turgon (though Túrin knew not why until recently), swore that he was the wisest of all the House of Finwë. Surely one so wise would understand how great was the danger to his own people, and wouldn’t risk them. The king had fallen silent, his eyes shut, and that was an encouraging sign—surely it meant that he at least took the threat seriously.

But it was not the king who next spoke. The Elf who stood on his right took another step forward, drawing his arms more closely around his chest. “I am sorry to hear of Nargothrond’s fall,” he said quietly, before going on in a louder voice, his eyes flashing, “but Nargothrond and Gondolin are not the same. We would risk much to leave, and all for an attack that may never come!”

Tuor and Túrin both opened their mouths at the same time to reply, Tuor fairly calmly, and Túrin… rather less so. The latter could feel Voronwë grabbing his shoulder, but barely registered the intent behind the gesture. But before anyone could say anything, Turgon stood and held up his hand. “Enough,” he said firmly. “All of you,” he added chidingly to the other Elf, who had the decency to look abashed. “This is not a matter that can be decided in the course of an evening.”

“We understand,” Tuor replied courteously, and Túrin nodded silently, not trusting himself to speak. Slowly, Voronwë let go of his shoulder.

“Good. Wait, and rooms will be prepared for you.”

After that, the crowd broke up. The lady sitting at the king’s side stood to whisper something to him, her face pale, but Túrin couldn’t catch any of what she said. He filed out with Tuor and Voronwë. The three of them went to sit under the lanterns hanging in the metal trees outside the palace doors, a general pall hanging over the group.

They were the three of them silent. Voronwë hid his face in his hands, but he wept not, at least not as far as Túrin could hear. Tuor pressed his hand to Voronwë’s back. After a few restless minutes, Túrin stood and paced about the two trees a few times, before coming to stand beneath the gold, clutching at an icy branch with one hand.

If worst came to worst, how difficult would it be to get out of the city and south of the Echoriath without the guards stopping him? Túrin had managed to get through the Ered Wethrin to Dor-lómin without being spotted, but then, he had only been evading Men. He wasn’t sure how much the training the marchwardens had given him would help against keen-eyed Elves, many of them Lechind.

_I’m not much use to Finduilas shot dead in the wilderness. But still…_

“He said he needed to think it over,” Tuor said to them. He must have guessed at Túrin’s thoughts from looking at the storm cloud doubtless attached to his face. “He didn’t refuse outright.”

“I wish I could share your confidence,” Túrin muttered sourly. Orodreth hadn’t refused Gelmir and Arminas outright, either. But once Túrin had had a chance to speak with him more in private, he had hardened his heart. That was likely what the Elf-lord who had argued against them was doing right now—the lady, too, if she was so inclined. “Voronwë.” Voronwë looked up at him, his gray eyes a touch wild. “The two at the king’s side, who were they?”

“The lady was Princess Idril, King Turgon’s daughter,” Voronwë explained, his voice just a little high-pitched. “Her mother, the Lady Elenwë, died before Gondolin’s founding, so Gondolin has no queen. When she was alive, the king’s sister, Princess Aredhel, filled that role in many regards, but she has died as well.”

“And the other?”

“Lord Maeglin of the House of the Mole, Turgon’s nephew and his heir.”

Túrin frowned, puzzled. “Lady Idril is not Turgon’s heir?”

Voronwë smiled tiredly up at him. “Was Finduilas’s Orodreth’s? Ah, well, that is not the way things are done in Gondolin. The old laws are adhered to more closely here.”

“So it would seem.”

Tuor reached out and clapped Voronwë on the shoulder. “Do you have anywhere to stay?” he asked cheerily—though Túrin thought that cheer sounded forced. Unwilling to contemplate the consequences of failure, perhaps. “If you don’t…”

But Voronwë smiled again, less tiredly, and waved his hand in dismissal. “My old house. If it’s fallen into disrepair, Elemmakil’s promised to give me the run of his.”

“…Ah…… that’s good.”

They fell back to silence. Túrin winced as an icy wind cut through him, and his stomach let out a growl of protest as well, if a rather different sort of protest. Truth be told, despite his impatience, Túrin wouldn’t have said no to a large meal and a soft bed at that moment (Or any kind of bed that wasn’t the hard ground).

“You speak very well.”

The sudden sound of that quiet voice made all three of them jump. When they saw who it was who had spoken, Voronwë bowed hastily, and Túrin and Tuor soon followed suit.

The lantern light made the silver embroidery on Idril’s dress glint dully as she smiled and nodded to them. She took a few steps closer, and Túrin realized with surprise how she had managed to approach without them hearing—she was barefoot.

“Your Highness.” It was Voronwë who spoke, his face coloring slightly. “Forgive us; we did not hear you.”

Idril held up her hand. “It is no trouble, Voronwë.” She gazed more closely at him. “I had wondered if you had anywhere to stay; you have been gone for several years.”

He nodded awkwardly, his cheeks still dark. “Yes, Princess. A neighbor has been tending to my house since I left. If something has happened to it—or him—a friend of mine has promised to let me stay with him.”

“Good.” She turned to Tuor, her smile widening slightly. “You spoke very well before my father,” she repeated. “I am glad that Huor’s child was able to grow to adulthood in such a world.”

Tuor beamed. “Thank you.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his lips quirking in a rueful smile. “To tell the truth, I was pretty nervous the whole time. I was almost grateful to have it over with.”

“Really? You did a good job of hiding it!” Idril turned her attention to Túrin. “I am glad to see Húrin’s child grown to manhood as well.”

“Not all of Húrin’s children were so fortunate,” Túrin muttered, looking away. Idril’s pale blue gaze was too piercing by half. Maeglin’s gaze had been piercing, perhaps, but Idril’s seemed to bore straight through him. He could feel Voronwë’s gaze on him too, though, and that accompanied by a belated sense that that might not have been the most appropriate response, led him to say, “But it does not matter now.” He smiled fitfully. “If you held my father in esteem, than I am glad for him.”

Idril did not reply. She stared up into his face, the smile gone from her mouth. What it was she saw, Túrin could not say for certain, but it was likely the same as so many others saw. If she saw a shadow over him, it was of no consequence. There was a shadow over them all, in these days.

“So you knew our fathers?” Tuor asked her curiously, and Túrin was frankly thankful to have the conversation steered elsewhere.

“Yes, I did,” Idril replied warmly. “They were only boys when they were here, but they lived in the palace, so they were often in my company.” She turned her attention back to Túrin, turned that piercing stare back on him. “You fear being trapped here,” she said plainly, as though he had said it to her.

Túrin froze, stiffening.

When she received no reply, Idril smiled faintly. “Do not fear it. The people of Gondolin will leave their home ere the end. I have seen it.”

“And how long will it be before that happens, my Lady?” Túrin asked her, struggling to keep his voice level. “Within my lifetime?”

Idril looked away. She took the long belt of her dress in her hands, twisting it in her fingers. “…Ah… That much, I cannot say.”

-0-0-0-

No matter how often the wind battered on the thin walls, Finduilas could not stop herself from wondering, if only for a moment, if someone was pounding their fists upon the walls. The doors were clearly visible, but with the wind and the snow, Finduilas supposed anything was possible.

Things were a little better. The canvas Círdan had sent them had indeed wound up being used as blankets rather than insulation (“What a waste of good sails,” Gil-galad had grumbled, but no one paid him much mind, and he didn’t try to stop anyone from cutting up the canvas). However, the cloaks and furs Melian had sent were perfectly capable of being utilized for their intended purpose. Finduilas had returned her borrowed cloak to its owner (whom she suspected was grateful to have it back, even if it was a spare) and counted herself rather warmer than she had been before.

The food situation… Finduilas wasn’t allowing any larger rations to be apportioned now than she had before. The wine was used for medicinal purposes only. It was a relief to have a greater supply of food to fall back on, but Finduilas couldn’t help but count herself worried that they were having increasing difficulty finding anything fresh in the forests.

 _And spring is yet all too far away; there is nothing to forage here_.

There had been no further word from the outside, no reply to the letter she had sent to Morwen. The latter did not surprise her overmuch; news traveled especially slowly in foul weather, and perhaps there was simply nothing to say. _Perhaps she does not wish to speak with me at all. Her son was in Nargothrond all this time, and she did not know. I would hardly blame her if she was wroth with anyone whom she believes deceived her_.

Finduilas sighed as she stepped out of the latest house she had visited while making the rounds. The mood of her people seemed to mirror her own—grateful for the gifts they had been given, but feeling hunger keenly, and were more than ready for this cruel weather to abate. Most were either unwilling or extremely reluctant to venture outside to hunt or fish for even short periods of time, _especially_ those who had survived the Helcaraxë crossing. (Those capable of performing the task drew lots to decide who would serve as scouts.)

 _Perhaps we should have stayed on Balar or at the Mouths of Sirion after all. It might have been crowded, and we might have had to give up some of our autonomy, but there would have been a greater measure of security—for all of us_. She smiled bitterly. Their bed was made, but it was still _interesting_ to compare secrecy and autonomy to better shelter and more plentiful food.

“Your Highness.” Aderthon practically melted out of the dark forest, giving a short bow when he walked up to her. “I have the border scouts’ reports.”

Finduilas nodded. She had stationed scouts to patrol the northeastern boundary of the Taur-im-Duinath, in addition to the scouts stationed throughout the part of the forest where they had taken up residence. It would be nice to at least have some warning if the Orcs found them. “And?”

“There’s no sign of any Orcs, nor of Glaurung.”

“I suspect I would know if Glaurung approached, Captain.”

“Most likely, yes, your Highness.”

“Is there anything else?”

Aderthon’s lip twitched slightly, though otherwise his face was expressionless. “They… they say they’re cold, your Highness.”

Finduilas shut her eyes, unable to resist a worn smile. “Unfortunately, they know as well as you and I that lighting a fire would give away their position. The next time you see them, you can tell them that I suffer with them. It’s hardly a lie.”

“That should please them.”

Aderthon made his way to the main house, and likely the makeshift quartermaster’s office that had sprung up there to get something to eat. Finduilas adjusted the fur ruff around the hood of her cloak and started towards the next house over. As she did so, she tried to remember the cheer her father, and her uncle before him, had shown when they made the rounds in Nargothrond. Even the cheer she had mustered when she had served as regent during the Bragollach would have sufficed.

But just then, a group of Edhil emerged from the forest, dragging full fishing nets behind them on strips of tree back. Finduilas approached them, able to find in her a wider, warmer smile than she had shown to Aderthon.

“Oh, Finduilas!” Gil-galad, his face nearly as red as a ripe strawberry, broke away from the rest of the group, dragging his net behind him. “I had wanted to speak with you.”

“Take your fish to the quartermaster first,” Finduilas told him, though she couldn’t manage the stern timbre other older sisters might have taken with not-yet-grown younger brothers. “Then we can talk.”

A nér came and took the edge of Gil-galad’s net in his hands. “I’ll take this,” he said kindly, nodding to Gil-galad. “Don’t worry over it.”

“Thank you.” Gil-galad dropped the net all too eagerly, in favor of immediately burying his hands in the folds of his cloak.

Finduilas waited until the fishing party had slipped inside the main house to address her brother. “What was it you wished to speak with me about?” she asked quietly. There were few outside to hear them, but still she spoke quietly when in public and not making a public announcement, a hard-won lesson from life in Nargothrond.

Gil-galad shrugged. “Nothing in particular, really. I was just thinking that we haven’t had much time to talk.”

Finduilas tried to restrain the flinch that made her very bones hurt. “That’s fair,” she allowed. She led him away from the clearing to the edge of the forest—wherever the conversation went, she’d like a little more privacy in which to conduct it, but neither did she want to go back inside. “So…” She cast about for a topic, and settled upon, “Your fishing has been going well.”

“Yes, it has,” Gil-galad agreed, nodding easily. He stared off into the dark forest, his mouth twisting in a small smile. “Fishing in a river is certainly different from fishing in a bay.”

Well, this was at least a safe subject they had latched on to. Finduilas raised an eyebrow. “Oh? How so?”

“Well, for one thing, you do have to be more careful of your nets—there are more rocks in the Gelion than in the Bay of Balar, and if the net catches on one, it could easily tear. For another, the currents—and, again, all of the rocks—means the fish don’t swim in such large schools as they do in the open sea.” He emitted a barking laugh. “Maybe I’m just frustrated that I can’t catch as many fish in one try as I could on the fishing boats.”

“It still surprises me,” Finduilas said softly. “I did not think Círdan would have you sit idle, but neither did I think he would have you working on a fishing boat.” Disbelief still rang clear in her at the thought. Oh, fair enough, the House of Finwë had produced many who were no strangers to labor. But not for one moment, if she was told that her brother had taken up a craft, would ‘fisherman’ have come to mind.

 _Perhaps because I do not know him at all. If I had known him from the beginning, I would be more familiar with his interests than I am_.

Gil-galad scuffed at the ground with his foot. “He insisted that I know how to sail—wouldn’t hear of me not knowing how to sail a ship if ever the occasion arose when I’d need to. As for fishing… Well, Círdan goes out with the fishing boats, sometimes; he used to be a fisherman, you know, long before he was ever the lord of a city. When I was little,” he said quietly, carding his fingers through his hair, “I was curious about it myself. Círdan decided it would be a good experience for me. ‘Kings, queens, and great lords shouldn’t be strangers to toil,’” he remarked, his mouth turning in a lopsided smile. “We’ve both had some experience with that.”

Finduilas turned away. “Yes. …I suppose I have.”

“Sister…” She jumped when a hand lit on her arm. “Are you alright?” Gil-galad asked, in the sort of tone that made her think that he already knew the answer to his query.

But Finduilas smiled, shrugging off his hand. “I’m well, Gil-galad, as well as I can be.” A cloud passed over Ithil, dousing them both in shadow. Just as quickly as it appeared, the smile fell from her face. “No, I’m not. I don’t see why I should be.” So many strained faces passed through her mind, all of them looking to her with such incredible uncertainty. “I don’t see how I _could_ be.” A hard knot formed in her throat, and she swallowed it away, angry at herself.

 _Do I have time for this?_ She ran her hand over her wrist, the phantom memory of leather cuffs biting into her skin asserting itself too-vividly, until she could almost feel the bite of the edges in her wrists. _Do I_?

“I…” Gil-galad stretched out his hand, but just short of Finduilas’s shoulder, he let it fall, limp, to his side. “…I suppose you aren’t. You don’t let it show much.”

Yes, it did seem that way. Finduilas gritted her teeth. “In my place, you wouldn’t let it show, either.”

When had her uncle ever shown uncertainty? Even her father had, at times, but Finrod was the king of Finduilas’s childhood, and he had been as he ever way: a golden prince, cheerful and wise, never wavering, never flinching, never hesitating. His heart was sure and strong as steel.

Somewhere in the forest, there came the splintering of a tree limb breaking away from its tree, and a dull thud as it hit the snowy ground. Gil-galad tilted his head downwards, his gaze boring into her face. “Finduilas…” He shifted his weight from foot to foot, as a soft look stole over his face. “…You don’t have to be that way with me. Please. You don’t have to hide everything from me.”

“And why is that?” He was a child, still, for all that his body might seem the body of an adult. To burden a child with what played constantly in her mind would do him no kindness, and no service.

“Because I’m your brother.” When Finduilas gaze no answer, he added, “Because I’m not your subject. I’m willing to listen, and I don’t want you to bear alone any burden that’s greater than your ability to carry.”

Finduilas found herself incapable of replying for what felt like an eternity, all the words caught in her throat. Inch by inch, any energy seeped out of her body, leaving her with only exhaustion. “You… you have grown very wise, haven’t you?”

Gil-galad snorted, but he smiled as he said, “That’s the first time anyone’s called me _that_.”

“Well, I will tell you. If I need to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Ecthelion's description of the many names of Gondolin is taken from 'The Book of Lost Tales 2', specifically the account of Tuor's coming to and life in Gondolin.
> 
>  **Ondolindë** —‘Rock of the Music of Water’ (Quenya); the original Quenya name of Gondolin  
>  **Echoriath** —‘The Encircling Mountains’ (Sindarin); the mountain range that surrounded the Vale of Tumladen and the city of Gondolin.  
>  **Ered Wethrin** —‘Mountains of Shadow’ (Sindarin); a mountain range in northern Beleriand in the first age. The Ered Wethrin formed a border around Hithlum, separating it from the Anfauglith to the east, Nevrast to the southwest, and western Beleriand to the south.  
>  **Lechind** —'Flame-eyed'; a name given to the Noldor by the Sindar, referring to the light of the Trees that shined in the eyes of those Noldor born in Aman during the Years of the Trees (singular: Lachend) (Sindarin)  
>  **Helcaraxë** —the Grinding Ice (Quenya); the bridge of ice between Araman and Middle-Earth in the far north of the world. Morgoth and Ungoliant escaped to Middle-Earth by this road after destroying the Two Trees. Later, after the burning of the ships at Losgar, the Noldorin exiles abandoned on the other side of the sea traveled to Middle-Earth by this road at great risk to themselves.  
>  **Nér** —man (plural: neri)


	5. Chapter Five

It was proving much more difficult to get an extended, private audience with the King of Gondolin than it had been with the King of Nargothrond. For one thing, Turgon held council meetings far more often than Orodreth had, and while Túrin and Tuor were allowed to speak at many of those meetings, it wasn’t long before they were drowned out by Maeglin, or by another voice of opposition from among the lords of Gondolin—and eventually, inevitably, Turgon would put a hand to his temple and call for the argument to cease, and the next topic of discussion be brought up. For another, Turgon also received petitioners more often than Orodreth had, and he did not well tolerate any of the nobles of his kingdom encroaching on the time he spent listening to the common people’s grievances and questions.

There was another factor that Túrin suspected was impeding his ability to get to Turgon, to speak with him in private for even a few minutes. In Nargothrond, he had been the friend of Finduilas’s betrothed, and soon a friend of Finduilas’s herself. That had been enough to catapult him far closer to Orodreth than many others had been. But Nargothrond had as well frequently launched attacks against the bands of Orcs roaming the countryside, and Túrin had had ample opportunity to prove his valor, and rise in the ranks of Nargothrond’s army. Here, he and Tuor both were just Turgon’s guests, the sons of his one-time guests. Their voices were not deemed to be ones that urgently needed to be heard.

 _I must find a way._ Túrin curled his hand right against the slim trunk of one of the trees in the private section of the palace’s pleasure gardens. _Or else, everyone here—_

“Túrin!”

Tuor was calling from a bench beside one of the great fountains in the garden, Voronwë and Idril perched on the bench with him, the latter availing herself of a thicker, more generously furred cloak than Túrin would have thought someone who went barefoot in the snow would have needed. His feet nearly dragging the ground behind him, Túrin made his way back over to where the three of them sat. “What is it?”

“We were wondering if you knew the name of this plant,” Tuor told him, pointing out a squat evergreen bush with glossy leaves, that was planted nearby the bench. “Even Princess Idril isn’t sure of what it is.”

That sounded rather… incredible, to be honest, considering that this was Idril’s home and she had lived here for centuries. But Idril simply waved a hand through the air. “I do not profess to be an expert on things that grow.”

Well, Túrin knelt down by the bush and examined it. A closer examination told him that the leaves of the bush were serrated, and that it possessed little clusters of round, yellow-green berries. However, it was nothing he could name, nothing whose name and uses he had been taught in Doriath. “It’s nothing that I can recognize,” Túrin admitted, his eyebrows slightly raised. “Voronwë?”

But Voronwë only shrugged. “I never paid much attention to the plant life of the places where I was wrecked. I was too busy cursing the sky, the stars and anything that might be listening.”

Túrin snorted. “I’d likely have been pretty distracted in your place, as well.” He blinked, remembering Rían trying to teach him the names of the trees when he was small. “Your mother would have known,” he said absently to Tuor. “She knew the names of all the plants.” _Though I suspect she made some of them up_.

“Gilrin told me that she did,” Tuor agreed. Gilrin, Tuor supposed, was one of the Mithrim Elves Tuor had grown up with. He sighed, and looked out over the snow-laden city. “That was a long time ago.”

The cold bit into Túrin like the teeth of a starving animal as he asked, “What all do you know of your mother? Perhaps I can fill in some of the gaps in your knowledge.” The Mithrim Elves would likely have known Rían less than a year. Túrin could not boast of a lifetime spent with Rían, but he had spent close to a decade with her. Surely, he could tell Tuor something the Mithrim hadn’t been able to.

“You told me your mother was a singer,” Idril murmured. She drew her hand from the folds of her blue cloak and pressed her fingertips to the back of Tuor’s hand. “Do you know if she was formally trained?”

“As to that, I cannot say. Túrin?”

At least the first question was one he could actually answer. Túrin shook his head. “No, she wasn’t—can’t have been; there was no one left to teach her by the time she was growing up. She had…” Túrin faltered when he realized that out of all the songs she had tried to teach him when he was small, he could no longer remember the words of any of them. “…She… had a high, clear voice. She played no instrument. What joy she derived from music, she got from song alone.”

Sometimes, his mother had sung with her, though this happened but rarely. Morwen’s much-lower voice was a fine complement to Rían’s high one. Túrin couldn’t remember the words his mother had sung, any more than he could Rían’s. It was just that his most vivid memories of the two of them together featured them sitting by the fireplace in winter, singing a quiet song, their eyes reflecting the firelight.

“She was… small, and young,” Túrin said quietly. “Even young as I was, I could see that. She lived with my parents before marrying; she was always humming a tune, or singing under her breath. She and your father were married a scant two months before he went away with nearly all the men of our House.”

Tuor blinked. Nearly imperceptibly, he curled his fingers nearly into fists. “I didn’t know they had so little time together,” he muttered. “I would have thought…”

Túrin frowned slightly. “Rían was too young to have been married any longer than a few years.”

“I… see.”

Voronwë patted Tuor on the back, his hand lingering on the latter’s shoulder for a few moments before falling away. Túrin watched as Voronwë looked past Tuor to Idril, who nodded. “Tuor?” she asked in a soft voice, smiling gently at him. “If you wish it, I can tell you of your father’s time here—and Húrin’s too, of course,” she added, nodding to Túrin. “I think you might like to hear it.”

“I think I would. Thank you, your Highness.”

If he was being entirely honest, Túrin had himself felt some curiosity over the time his father spent here. Húrin had never breathed a word that would make Túrin think that he had been to Gondolin, not even when he attempted to joke with him. The sheer splendor of the city must have left an impression, and Húrin had hidden it so well that his son had seen not the barest hint of it.

However, he gave his excuses, bowed to Idril, and moved on from where the three sat. They derived enough joy from one another’s company that they wouldn’t lose anything for his absence. Túrin came to brace his hands against the balustrade near the edge of the private section of the gardens, overlooking the city far below.

A weak sun shone orange-gold over the snowy rooftops and the streets and fountains and towers. Túrin noticed for the first time what looked like gardens on many of the flat rooftops—long troughs filled with soil, that had been cleared of snow. The rushing water in the fountains sparkled like diamonds. The forms of the people below appeared as dark figures no larger than one of Túrin’s fingernails.

It was a lovely place, filled with people who knew nothing of what it was like to live under siege, under constant threat of destruction. Túrin was not sure how far the word of his and Tuor’s news to Turgon had spared, but it seemed not to affect the people of Gondolin at all. Whenever Túrin went out into the city, no one acted like someone who believed that death would find them if they stayed.

It was a lovely place, filled with kind people—not once sine Túrin had acquired fresh, clean clothes had he been stared at or whispered over. It might be that he was no longer in the company of a man who wore full Elven armor. It might be what had so often been remarked upon in Nargothrond—when clean-shaven, Túrin could pass for an Elf without much difficulty. All the same, they were kind enough not to single him out as one of only two Men among thousands of Elves.

They were kind, but if they did not leave this place, their kindness would not be enough to save them.

Tuor did not seem to feel the same sense of urgency as his cousin. Fair enough, he had tried to speak with Turgon about the matter, the same as Túrin. But he did not look upon Gondolin as one looked on a doomed city, and he did not walk among the people as one might walk among those you knew could easily all die. Túrin saw the incredible beauty of the city reflected in Tuor's eyes, saw towers and fountains, banners flapping in the wind, elaborate carvings on the sides of public buildings.

Tuor consumed with the utmost enthusiasm whatever knowledge the Gondolindrim were willing to teach him. He chatted up some of the local blacksmiths, peppered glassmakers with questions about their craft, taught songs to and learned songs from the many harpists of the city. More than once, Túrin had found him in the library with one of the staff, the latter of whom was patiently trying to teach Tuor the basics of Quenya.

If momentarily Tuor had forgotten the urgency of his mission, so consumed was he by the wonders of what he saw, Túrin supposed he would not remind him, not quite yet. Tuor had given his message, had done his part. Now, it was time for Túrin to do his.

The hairs on the back of Túrin’s neck stood up. He turned around and cast his gaze to the staircase leading away from the gardens. Standing there, swathed in a black cloak and half-hidden by the large evergreen bushes, was Maeglin. The two locked eyes, Maeglin staring at Túrin with an unreadable look on his face, the latter actively resisting the urge to glare.

But after several minutes, Maeglin made his way back up the staircase and out of sight, as noiselessly as Idril would have done in her bare feet. Túrin clenched his hand tight on the balustrade, and wondered.

-0-0-0-

Another visit from a party out of Doriath brought not food, but a request on the state of affairs in the camp and, surprisingly, a slew of letters (Though maybe it shouldn’t have surprised Finduilas, that those of her people who had fled to Doriath would want to maintain correspondence with the loved ones they had left behind). The greatest surprise, however, was that one of the letters was addressed to her.

“Is it from Thingol?” Finduilas had asked Emethril, peering curiously down at the letter. Thingol had sent her no personal message at the first, so she couldn’t imagine why he would be doing so now. However, there weren’t too many other people it _could_ be from. Galadriel, or Celeborn, maybe, but neither of them had written to her, either.

Emethril shook her head. “No, your Highness. It’s a response to the letter you asked me to deliver earlier.”

“Lady _Morwen?_ ” Finduilas’s gaze turned from curious to thunderstruck. _What does it say?_ At the thought of the accusations the letter could easily contain, her stomach started to churn. _You would think that I had nothing greater to fear than the recriminations of the mother of one whom I love_ , she thought reproachfully, and tried to quell her doubts.

But again, Emethril shook her head. “Not Lady Morwen. Her daughter, Niënor.”

Well.

Finduilas took the letter back behind the thin partition in the main house, her questions increasing with each step. By the time she had a reasonable amount of privacy in which to read the letter, she nearly tore the letter itself along with its wrapping in her haste to get the letter out.

_‘To Queen Finduilas of Nargothrond,_

_‘Firstly, thank you for the letter you sent to my mother. We had heard many reports about my brother’s fate following the sack of Nargothrond, nearly all of them conflicting with one another. Mother did not take well to not knowing for sure what had happened to him._

_‘Second, if this doesn’t seem too presumptuous, I have a favor to ask you._

_‘If she does not receive word of Túrin_ ’s _by the spring thaw, Mother had decided that she will ride for Dor-lómin to seek him herself.’_

Well, it seemed that Túrin had not been exaggerating when he told Finduilas that much of his nature he had inherited from his mother. Having both of them in the same place at the same time would prove… interesting. Finduilas read on:

_‘I couldn’t dissuade her from the idea when she first came to it, and I can’t dissuade her from it now. However, a return to Dor-lómin would pose problems for both of us. Before we left, Mother and I weren’t well-liked by the Easterlings Morgoth left in charge of the country. Mother in particular was, on account of her appearance and her bearing, suspected of being a witch, or at least what the Easterlings suppose a witch to be._

_‘I am afraid that if Mother returns to Dor-lómin after all this time, and wearing Elven clothes, no less, those who feared her before will attempt to harm her. But Mother will not look at the danger she puts herself in by going there._

_‘Therefore, this is the request I make of you. You offered to give us shelter once Túrin_ _returned from Dor-lómin. I ask that you give us leave to travel to your camp at the beginning of spring, whether or not Túrin_ _has returned. Otherwise, his mother is unlikely to be reunited with him. Possibly, his sister, as well._

_‘Respectfully,_

_‘Niënor, daughter of Morwen and Húrin.’_

Finduilas ran her hand through her hair and groaned.

“My, that is a sticky situation.”

Finduilas jumped at the voice that so suddenly rose behind her shoulder. But then she turned an incredulous stare on her brother. “Have you never been told that it’s rude to read other people’s mail?” There was no edge to her voice, but there was, perhaps, a bit of a bite.

Gil-galad took a step back. “I’m sorry, Finduilas, but you were so absorbed by it that I had to know what it said.”

“I’m glad to know my correspondence is of such interest to you,” Finduilas murmured, rolling her eyes. She took the parchment she had been given to compose a reply from the folds of her cloak. “Go get my stylus from the quartermaster, and some of the ink Emethril gave him. I need it.”

-0-0-0-

New Year’s celebrations had been small and mostly private in Dor-lómin—especially so after Lalaith died, for Morwen had no desire to welcome guests, and stayed upstairs in the private part of the house until after they had left (Húrin had eventually asked that visitors simply stay away from their house at that time). When Túrin first experienced a New Year’s celebration in Menegroth, the size and scope of it had been overwhelming. The festivities lasted for three days of massive feasting. The wine ran free, and the commingled sounds of laughter and song birthed such an incredible din that Túrin couldn’t sleep while it was still going on.

Nargothrond was similar to Menegroth, and the minor differences (festivities lasting for four days instead of three, and various contests for small prizes) had not thrown him too much. But Gondolin, on the other hand…

This was the seventh day—or rather, _night_ —of celebrations, the last day of the old year. Celebrations would continue for three more days before finally winding down, or so Túrin had been told. Feasting was restricted to today and tomorrow; no reason had been given as to why, but Túrin suspected that, no matter how plentiful Gondolin’s larders might be, they didn’t run deep enough to support ten consecutive days of winter feasting. The food was excellent in taste and preparation. Rarely had Túrin seen meat put down before diners in the King’s Hall, even at Turgon’s own table, and now was no exception, but Túrin had feasted today on a multitude of candied fruits and pickled vegetables, on cheese and beans and sweet breads dripping with honey. That there was no pork or venison or pheasant barely seemed to matter.

There had been horse-racing on the Tumladen, with gifts of silk and velvet cloth to the winners. Singing contests in the Great Market, with a basket full of candied pears for the winners, and a contest for harpists in which Salgant supplied a rich prize indeed for the winner—a harp made of solid silver. Tuor had ranked highly in that particular arena, though the prize ended up in the hands of one of Ecthelion’s subordinates. Everywhere he went, Túrin saw the bliss of Gondolin, and under different circumstances, he too might have been able to surrender himself to the joy of the moment.

However, that was not to be.

There was a sort of gallery that extended up and above the feasting hall—basically, several hallways on the second floor emptied out onto a covered balcony, shadowy at night unless the torches had been light, and tonight the torch-lighter seemed to have neglected their duties. Túrin had given his excuses to Turgon and left the festivities behind him, but he’d not been tired enough to sleep. He stood with his hands gripped tight on the balustrade, overseeing the scene playing out below.

Turgon remained seated at the high table, the tension gone out of his back and shoulders as he watched the revelers dance. This was the fourth day of dancing, and yet he’d still not taken to the floor even once. Even Túrin had danced at times, though Gondolin’s forms were unfamiliar to him, and more than once he’d ended up treading on his partner’s foot (He’d eventually stopped for precisely that reason). Occasionally, someone would come up to speak with him, and he would incline his head to listen more closely, nodding and sometimes smiling.

On the fringes of the feasting hall, Salgant and Ecthelion sat side by side making music, the former on his harp and the latter on his flute. There were a few others with them, but Túrin didn’t recognize their faces.

Tuor cared far less about not knowing the Gondolin forms, or so it seemed, for he had been dancing ever since he left his seat and empty plates behind him. He passed from partner to partner, talking and laughing with anyone who came into earshot. Idril was there as well, her pale braid swinging back and forth as she made her way to and fro across the floor. Túrin thought she was one of the better dancers present—she never missed a beat or a step, and never bumped into anyone (Something Túrin had learned in Nargothrond was nearly the most important part of dancing in large groups). However, Idril seemed only willing to dance with those whose steps weren’t muddled by clumsiness or drink, and avoided any pockets of drunken revelers. It must hurt, Túrin reflected, when someone wearing boots stomped down on your bare feet.

Túrin frowned as he surveyed the feasting hall below him. The sense of wonder he had felt at the splendor of this city had faded. In its place arose the sense of feeling horribly exposed. Gondolin was not built into a massive network of caves as were Nargothrond and Doriath, and was not sheltered by a vast forest and powerful enchantments as the latter was. If anyone crossed into the vale of Tumladen, they would see the city—all they had to do was find a way to bypass the gates.

 _None of them feel their own vulnerability_. A shriek of laughter rose above the din; one of Duilin’s daughters had slipped and fallen against her sister. _You would think none of them knew what lies to the north of them, so near that if Morgoth ever discovered where they were, his army would be here within a week of setting out, and with little warning._

He wondered briefly how the new year was being kept in the camp of the Nargothrond exiles. _If I could have convinced Turgon at the outset, I could have been back by now_.

Soft footfalls sounded behind him, and Túrin turned to greet the newcomer, and froze.

Maeglin stood shadowed in the threshold of one of the hallways, his arms clasped across his chest. Curiously, like Túrin, he wore his sword clipped to his belt. He said nothing, but instead studied Túrin closely, as though he was trying to peel away his skin with only his eyes.

“Lord Maeglin,” Túrin said shortly, nodding stiffly to the Elf.

Maeglin nodded silently and slipped out into the gallery, his gaze turning from Túrin to the revelers below. For a long moment, Túrin watched as Maeglin seemingly tracked the progress of one of the dancers below, his mouth forming an especially thin line on his face, though Túrin could not guess which of the dancers it was he watched. Then Maeglin’s eyes cleared, and he held out a hand to Túrin. “Your sword… May I see it?”

“Why?” Túrin asked sharply.

“Inspection.”

Well, Túrin doubted Maeglin would just make off with Gurthang as though it were his own. He unclipped his sword from his belt and held it out to the Elf-lord.

Apparently it was the blade Maeglin wished to ‘inspect,’ fro he unsheathed it, tossing the sheath carelessly to the floor. He held the flat of the blade on each of his palms, his black eyes flashing as he pored over it. “It was made from the flesh of a fallen star, was it not? Under the eaves of Doriath?”

Túrin blinked. What he had heard, just now, was not the amalgamation of Sindarin and Quenya used in the city, but pure, Iathrim Sindarin. “…Yes,” he said distractedly, “It was.”

“A black sword, strong enough to cleave steel.” Maeglin smiled thinly. “Whatever you call it now, know that its maker named it—“

“Anglachel.”

Maeglin narrowed his eyes in apparent displeasure, but nodded. “Yes, it was called Anglachel. Tell me, son of Húrin, do you ever hear the sword sing?”

The question was oddly specific, but what was stranger still was that Túrin could give an answer that was not a definite ‘no.’ “It does not sing. At times, if rarely, and only after battle, I have heard it speak. No one else seems able to.”

“I see.” Maeglin handed Gurthang back to Túrin, and unsheathed his own sword. Túrin gaped at it. The sword’s blade was black, with a faint blue glow around its edges. “This, son of Húrin, is Anguirel, the mate and sibling of the sword Anglachel. It was born of the same flesh, and forged by the same smith.”

The sword was perfectly identical to Gurthang’s appearance before being reforged by the smiths of Nargothrond, down to the peculiarly curled shape of the cross guard. “I… was told that Anglachel was given to Thingol by one of his lords as a gift. How,” he asked, suspicion as a whetstone to his tongue, “did a lord of Gondolin, a Noldorin king’s nephew, come into possession of its mate?”

Maeglin met his gaze evenly, his face expressionless. “I am the son of the smith who forged the swords. That is how Anguirel came to be mine.”

How the son of an Iathrim smith was also a prince of the Noldor was something of interest, but not as interesting as the matter of the two swords, and their relationship to their maker. “Is your father here?” Túrin asked Maeglin almost eagerly. “I have questions I would ask him about the sword.”

Maeglin stiffened. “No,” he said quietly, his face tightening. “He is not."

Túrin let the matter drop. As Maeglin sheathed his sword, Túrin went to retrieve Gurthang’s sheath, so carelessly discarded, and did the same. Maeglin must have come here with his mother, Túrin supposed, and left his father behind; in that case, Anguirel was like a parting gift. There was no point in pressing the matter; it was not Túrin’s concern.

“So you truly believe we face destruction if we stay,” Maeglin called scornfully behind him. He had switched back to Gondolin’s Sindarin, the Quenya loanwords slightly uneasy on his tongue.

Túrin turned on his heel, his blood pounding in his ears. “Yes, I do.” If Maeglin wanted to have this argument out from under Turgon’s supervision, Túrin wouldn’t hold back. “You may be too arrogant to see it,” Túrin snapped, “but a vision isn’t something to be ignored at will.”

To this, Maeglin scoffed. “Anyone bereft of food and drink can have visions.” He raised an eyebrow meaningfully. “That does not make them true.”

“How could Tuor have come upon the armor if he wasn’t guided there?”

“He found it by chance,” Maeglin answered promptly. “After having his—“ he curled his lip “— _vision_ , Noldorin armor seemed like confirmation of it. And why should the Valar warn us of anything?” he asked, his eyes blazing, “or choose an Adan to carry the warning? The Valar cursed the Exiles and ignore the Edain. They are indifferent to us. They do not care for our suffering,” Maeglin muttered bitterly, clenching his jaw and looking away.

Túrin stared at him in silence, thunderstruck. Then he asked, in a voice he wished was more even than it was, “Do you know what the most incredible thing is?” Maeglin said nothing, his eyes hard and searching. “I thought exactly the same thing when Ulmo sent messengers to Nargothrond.”

At that, Maeglin frowned deeply. “You have said nothing of this.”

Túrin glared in response. “You never gave me much opportunity to. But it’s true. In the spring before its destruction, Nargothrond received two visitors—Círdan’s men, bearing a warning from Ulmo. They said that Nargothrond would not last the year, unless certain…” He paused, nearly choking on remembered shame “…conditions were met. I did not listen, and I persuaded others not to listen, including King Orodreth. …I was… arrogant. In the end, it cost me nearly everything.”

Maeglin’s eyes were open wide, his face suddenly taut. “…Nargothrond and Gondolin are not the same,” he insisted, without the fire he showed in the council chamber. “Gondolin is not Nargothrond. We are far from the Sea, and there are many enemies between us and it. How many of us would die on the road if we left?”

“I know that most of you will die if you stay,” Túrin argued. “Maybe all. You have King Turgon’s ear; he heeds your counsel. Could you really watch as all you loved died, and know you could have prevented it, if only you had listened?”

For a long moment, Maeglin said nothing. He stared down at the ground, his brow knit and his lips pressed tightly together. Túrin could practically see the questions whirling in his dark eyes. Then, Maeglin’s face contorted in what almost looked like agony. “…You… Have you told my uncle of this?”

“Not yet.” _You’ve never allowed me the opportunity_.

Maeglin nodded choppily, and strode towards the hallway he had first emerged from. In the threshold, he turned, and beckoned to Túrin. “Come. I can persuade the king to listen.”

-0-0-0-

The spring had come late this year, later and frankly colder than Finduilas would have liked. When Anor shone over the forest, there was a weak, mild warmth that bore no sting, but that seemed to be because all the sting had gone to the night winds. Nevertheless, the snow was gone form the ground, the trees were decked with flowers and tender leaves, and all around there was the green small of new growth. That was something to be thankful for, certainly.

Now, the camp was alive with the sound of hammers on nails, or hammers on anvils in the forges. Círdan had been as good as his word—as soon as the snow melted, Finduilas had received a little over fifty craftsmen ready to build houses, public buildings, and anything else the camp needed to survive (And they’d brought more food with them, which was always appreciated). With her own craftsmen, they’d gotten started right away. Construction likely wouldn’t be finished for several months, but they were progressing. Herself, Finduilas had appropriated the first of the buildings as a base from which to coordinate construction.

Doriath had sent seeds for planting—apparently, Melian had planned to do so from the beginning, but had seen no point in it so long as the ground was still frozen solid. The planting, along with the digging of three wells and the bolts of cloth that had been sent with which to make clothing, made this feel like a permanent settlement, more than houses ever could, no matter the builders’ skill. So it seemed to Finduilas, anyways.

 _Who knows how long we’ll be able to stay here, before we have to leave again?_ Finduilas wondered, as she sat at her table, looking over the plans that had been drawn up. Nargothrond would make all too convenient a staging point for future attacks by Glaurung and his forces. If they would out where the Nargothrond exiles had fled to, if they cared at all…

But she couldn’t afford to let herself be distracted by those fears. Finduilas suspected that if she did, she would never be able to focus on what needed to be done here and now, for her people to have lives even remotely comparable to the ones they had led in Nargothrond. In all likelihood, even the grandest of wooden houses would be a pale shadow to the grandeur of Nargothrond. But they did not have to live pressed up against one another in badly-lit, drafty buildings.

“Your Highness?” One of the scouts appeared in the doorway. “You have a visitor.”

Someone from Doriath or Balar, probably. Without looking up from the plans strewn out over the table, Finduilas nodded. “Send them in.”

There came the dull thump of boots against the wooden floorboards, one after the other, almost hesitantly. Finduilas felt a strange prickling on the back of her neck. “I’m sorry I cannot be more attentive, but as you’ve doubtless noticed, we’re all very…” She looked up from the table, and the words died in her throat.

There, after nearly seven months of absence, stood Túrin, gilded by the morning sunlight that flashed through the open doorway. They gazed upon one another in silence, their eyes riveted to the other’s face.

He was much more well-fed looking after spending the winter in the wilderness than Finduilas would have expected. Finduilas knew herself to still be rather thin, still a touch gaunt, but Túrin did not even have that keen light in his eyes as a tell of hunger. He had been more gaunt-looking when he had first come to Nargothrond.

He was also much better-dressed than someone who had spent the last seven months in the wilds had any right to be, and Finduilas knew, from looking at him, that he must have found shelter during the winter months. He had left her wearing black, and returned in rich blue and silver, arrayed as a lord rather than a vagabond. Suddenly, Finduilas found herself feeling very self-conscious, clothed as she was in a plain dress of purple wool.

Finduilas put any self-consciousness aside and stood. She favored Túrin with a watery smile. “So you have returned. …I was waiting.”

The ghost of a smile, however rueful, passed over Túrin’s face. “Forgive me, I was delayed. I have come as I could.” He raised an eyebrow. “So… _Queen_ Finduilas?”

That must have been how the scouts called her, when Túrin came upon them. Finduilas nodded. “Yes, ‘Queen Finduilas.’ Queen over a refugee camp, maybe, but Queen nonetheless.” It still felt strange—Finduilas wasn’t sure if the title would ever feel like it belonged to her, or if it would ever be something she could carry as well as her predecessors had carried ‘king’, but like it or not, it was hers to carry now. She had no intention of dying and passing it to another.

“Should I swear again the oath I made your father?” Túrin asked her, visibly bemused.

A trill of laughter bubbled up from Finduilas’s throat. How long had it been since she last laughed, laughed for joy and not bitterness? “The oath you swore was one of loyalty to the ruler of Nargothrond, until such time as the ruler sees fit to release you. You needn’t swear again. Now, who was it who sheltered you through the winter?”

Túrin himself laughed at this, his eyes crinkling upwards. “You’d scarcely believe me if I told you.”

Now, that was an interesting response. “I would like to hear it.”

“Gondolin,” Túrin said simply.

Finduilas gawked at him, slack-jawed. “…… _Gondolin?!_ But no one goes to Gondo—No one _leaves_ Gondolin; how did you get out?!”

Túrin told her the whole story, of how he had encountered his cousin, Tuor, and the Elf Voronwë in the wilds of north Beleriand, and how he had discovered that the two of them were on a mission from Ulmo to warn Turgon of Gondolin’s impending destruction. He told her of how he, Tuor and Voronwë had traveled to Gondolin (with a rather length description of the city’s beauty, but Finduilas had always been curious about Turgon’s hidden city, anyways) and how, at length, Turgon had been persuaded to heed Ulmo’s warnings ,and abandon his city.

“So they’re going to settle by the Mouths of Sirion?” Finduilas asked when Túrin finished with his tale. She couldn’t imagine a city as large as Gondolin (she knew both of the size of the force Turgon had led during the Nirnaeth, and the estimate of just how many followers he had had when he departed from Nevrast) simply evacuating, and so many people journeying south through hostile territory.

“Not all at once,” Túrin explained. He folded his arms across his chest and frowned slightly, his skin tight around his eyes. “The evacuation will take several years; they wish to construct houses to live in _before_ all of Gondolin’s people make the journey. Tuor elected to stay in Gondolin until that time.”

“But you left.”

“Yes, I did.” Túrin smiled slightly in a momentary flash of teeth, but the warmth of the expression was enough to lift years of sorrow from his face, if only for a moment. “After all, I swore that I would return.”

Finduilas wanted dearly to… She wasn’t sure what. She smiled, and did not voice it. Not today. That was not for a day when the pain she felt to remember Gwindor was still as keen as a knife in her flesh. Some day, when she could love without a shadow behind her, and she was more sure of Túrin’s feelings for her. By inches and degrees she had come to live him. By inches and degrees, perhaps, she could forgive grief and guilt.

“Come with me,” she said softly. I have something to show you.”

-0-0-0-

His curiosity piqued, Túrin followed Finduilas out of the building. The Elves of Nargothrond had wasted no time working on building a permanent settlement once the weather allowed it; there were several houses up already, and a large clearing set aside for planting. He was… He was glad. Túrin hadn’t been sure of the state the camp would be in, once he came here. This was better than nearly all the scenarios he had envisioned on his journey south. Finduilas seemed better than he’d imagined too, but then, she had always thrived on responsibility.

Finduilas… His departure from her side might have enabled him to help save Gondolin from suffering the same fate as Nargothrond, but he couldn’t shake off the feeling that it had been his own weakness that had caused him to leave her. But that could not be helped, now. It was best, instead, to resolve not to leave her side again.

Finduilas led him past the construction are, past what Túrin assumed were the buildings the Nargothrond Elves had wintered in, and to a spot at the edge of the forest. Two Elves lingered in the shade, one leaning against the trunk of a massive oak tree, the other sitting on the roots, poring over a spinning wheel. The one who stood was tall and well-built, nearly as tall as Túrin himself, with thick blonde hair that spilled over her shoulders. A longbow and a quiver of arrows laid on the ground at her feet. There was something familiar in her features, though Túrin couldn’t place what that was. The seated Elf was smaller and slimmer, wearing a purplish mantle that obscured her face from sight.

Except, as Túrin looked at them, he realized they weren’t Elves at all.

The woman leaning against the tree trunk spotted them first. The look on her face as she eyed Túrin was at first uncomprehending; she didn’t know who she was looking at any more than he did. But the woman then turned her eyes on Finduilas, who nodded. At that, white-lipped, she shook the seated woman’s shoulder. “Mother!” she hissed. “Look!”

She stood, and threw her mantle back from her face, and at the same moment her face bled white, Túrin realized, his heart hammering in his chest, just who this was.

“Mother…”

They closed the distance between them, Túrin slowly, Morwen with the same purposeful stride he remembered from so long ago. She looked older. It had been over twenty years since last he saw her; of course Morwen was going to look older. The lines in her face, the frost in her hair, it should not have surprised him, and yet, nothing could be more shocking. Not even the realization that the woman with Morwen was certainly Niënor, his sister—she always remained a child in his dreams of her, with features not her own, features that had once belonged to another—could top it.

“Túrin.” Her voice was unchanged; age could not enfeeble it. “My son.” She pressed her palms gently against his cheeks. “You’re looking well,” she said, more gently than Túrin have ever been accustomed to.

“Mother.” He wanted to embrace her, but his arms hung limp at his side. He could scarcely even speak. “I…”

Morwen smiled slightly, the same small, reserved smile that he remembered. “Fate as smiled on us this time, my son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Anor** —the Sindarin name for the Sun


End file.
